To make sure the baby in my mother's womb was a boy, my grandmother had shelled out a small fortune at five months to have someone check.

A boy. Confirmed.

Except when I came out, I was a girl.

My grandmother's face went cold. My grandfather sat in silence, chain-smoking. Nobody wanted me.

And I happened to be a fussy baby. The slightest thing would set me off wailing.

"A waste of money is nothing but trouble," my grandmother said. My grandfather complained I was too loud, that I disturbed his sleep.

The two of them packed up and left. Just like that.

My mother had to look after both me and my sister on her own. She had no choice but to quit her job.

She stayed home as a housewife after that, all the way until I started elementary school.

But by the time I started school, she'd been out of the workforce so long that no one would hire her. Even pulling strings, the only jobs she could land were backbreaking and barely paid anything.

She worked during the day. At night she came home with a face like stone and took out every ounce of frustration from the office on me.

I knew from a young age that my parents played favorites. That they didn't want me.

So I tried. I tried to be obedient. I tried to get good grades. I tried to be better.

But no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't worth a single strand of my sister's hair.

The truth is, I hated them.

I hated my parents. I hated my sister. I hated the world.

Especially after hearing that vicious curse from my mother's mouth. The hatred only deepened.

My father sighed and told her to stop.

"What's done is done. What's the point of saying all that now?"

Then he turned to look at me. "Lily, everyone in the family has already gone in for HLA typing. Will you go get tested too?"

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I'd known all along my parents would eventually ask me to get tested.

The reason they hadn't asked sooner was simple: they thought my marrow was too dirty to be worthy of my sister's precious body.

They'd always believed I wasn't worthy of her. That's why, growing up, when my sister outgrew her clothes, they'd rather sell them or give them away than let me wear them.

Everything I wore was secondhand from relatives and neighbors. Stained clothes that wouldn't come clean no matter how many times you washed them. Some of them reeked.

I thought about the message my father had posted in the family group chat: five thousand dollars for anyone who went in for typing.

I tested the waters. "If I go get typed, do I get the five thousand too?"

My parents froze.

My mother set down her chopsticks and started dabbing at her eyes.

"I told you she was born to bleed us dry! Her sister is that sick, and when we ask her own flesh and blood to go get typed, she has the nerve to ask us for money!"

"I said we should've given her away. You wouldn't listen. Look at what we're dealing with now!"

My father's face darkened. "Lily, she's your sister. Family doesn't keep score like that."

I wanted to tell them I had no money.

I'd only been out of college two years. Five thousand a month. Two thousand of that went straight to the household. On top of that I bought groceries, toiletries, and covered the water, electric, and gas bills.

Now that I was sick, I needed to save every penny I could for myself.

But looking at my mother wiping her tears and my father sitting there in stony silence, I couldn't hold my ground.

I just gave a small nod.

"Okay."

When the doctor saw I'd come in for bone marrow typing, he was thrilled. He'd been urging me to come in sooner, saying the earlier the procedure, the higher the success rate.

After the test, my parents were on edge. So was I.

I knew this was my one and only chance.

The expedited results came back. A match.

My parents turned the report over and over in their hands, reading it again and again, then threw their arms around each other and sobbed with joy.

I was shaking too.

I knew I was saved.

But I couldn't agree to donate right away.

If I said yes too quickly, my parents would figure out the truth: the one who was really sick was me.

Not only would I never see a dime, I'd probably be thrown out of the house for lying.

I needed to build momentum. I needed to put my parents over a fire so hot they'd have no choice but to agree to let my sister donate her bone marrow to me.

No choice but to spend the money to get me treated.

So when they asked me when I was free to go to the hospital for the transplant, I refused. Stone-faced.

They froze.

"Why?" they demanded. "She's your own sister!"

"Are you really going to stand by and watch her die?"

They called me an ungrateful wretch. Heartless. A monster.

No matter what they said, I wouldn't budge.

"Mom, donating bone marrow has side effects. Sure, I'm young, it probably won't matter now. But what about when I'm old?"

"Will you still take care of me then?"

Mom swore to the heavens without missing a beat. "As long as you donate to your sister, no matter what happens to you down the road—even if you end up paralyzed—we'll look after you for the rest of your life!"

I smiled. It didn't reach my eyes.

They made it sound so noble. All those years, every time I had a cold or a fever, had they taken care of me even once? They'd shove some expired medicine at me and tell me to drink more water.

But when Laurel so much as nicked her finger, Mom would rush her to the emergency room.

When I refused to donate, my parents bombarded me with messages every single day.

They even showed up at my office in a pack, making a scene right at the entrance. They told my company I was a heartless ingrate who wouldn't even save her own sister.

Then they took it online, sobbing about how close Laurel and I had always been, how good they'd been to me growing up. Now that my sister was sick and needed a bone marrow transplant, I'd already been typed as a match—and I was refusing.

They wept and wailed across social media, snot and tears streaming, rallying strangers to pressure me.

To blow it up even further and force my hand, Dad actually paid to get the story onto the trending topics.

It worked exactly as they'd hoped.

I was fired. Walking down the street, people pointed and whispered.

Bloggers and reporters tracked down my parents. They said they wanted to help plead my parents' case.

Mom and Dad couldn't have been more thrilled.

A whole mob marched toward my apartment.

The second I opened the door, they swarmed in—cameras and microphones shoved in my face from every direction.

"Ms. Dickerson, the patient is your biological sister. Why won't you agree to donate?"

Mom dropped to her knees right in front of me and slammed her forehead against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Lily, I'm begging you! Save your sister!"

I bent down to pull her up, but she refused to move.

"If you don't agree, I'll kneel here until I die."

My chest ached. I looked at her and said, "Mom, if I were the one who was sick, would you beg Laurel to donate for me the same way?"

She didn't even think about it. "Of course!"

"You both came from my body! I've always treated you equally—never any different! If either of you got sick, I'd fight to save you with my last breath!"

Dad nodded furiously beside her. "We've never played favorites. Not once. You're both the same to us!"

The reporters exchanged glances, admiration softening their faces. After all, biased parents were a dime a dozen. Parents who truly treated their children the same? That was rare.

And with those words, my parents sealed the narrative. I was the villain.

I rose slowly to my feet. Reached into my bag. Pulled out a medical report.

My voice was calm.

"Mom. Actually, the one who's sick... is me."