Preference from my sister

The day I bought my own burial plot, I posted on social media: "Scrimped and saved, finally bought a house!"

My mom saw it and told me to add my sister's name to the deed. "If it weren't for your sister's illness, you wouldn't even be here. You need to be grateful."

Fine, I'm grateful. I'll add all your names! Happy now?

1

Ever since I was little, I knew that other kids' lives were gifts from their parents. Mine was a gift from my sister, Chloe.

Chloe’s four years older than me. During a kindergarten checkup, she was diagnosed with a chronic blood disorder.

My parents hadn't planned on having another kid, but Chloe’s illness forced their hand. They hoped a second child could be a bone marrow donor.

Grandma told Mom, "Having another baby is good. It could help Chloe, and if it's a boy, you'll have someone to rely on."

Then I came along. A girl. And my bone marrow wasn't a match.

So, I became the family burden. Every time Chloe had a flare-up, Mom blamed me for not being useful.

"Ashley! If I'd known you'd be so useless, I wouldn't have had you! We have to split our attention, and Chloe gets less care because of you!"

As a kid, I didn't understand it was favoritism. I just blamed myself for not having the right blood type.

I grew up steeped in guilt.

By six, I was old enough to work. When Mom and Dad went to their food truck, I had to cook for Chloe. We had an old gas stove. I’d stand on a stool, struggling with the spatula, making scrambled eggs, nearly falling into the pot more times than I can count.

Mrs. Peterson next door saw me and told Mom, "Ashley’s only six! How can you let her cook? It's too dangerous!"

Mom snapped back, "You're worried about her? Then you cook for Chloe! You feel so bad for her, why don't you take her home and raise her?"

Mrs. Peterson was furious and never interfered in our business again.

When I was in fifth grade, my parents rented a tiny two-bedroom apartment in town to be closer to Chloe's hospital. Mom and Dad got a room, Chloe got a room, and I got the couch.

Money was tighter in the city. To save on electricity, Mom made me hand-wash everyone's clothes. I dreaded Chloe's jeans and Mom and Dad’s greasy aprons. The denim was stiff, the aprons were caked in oil, and I always ended up with raw, chapped hands and broken nails.

Mom never showed an ounce of sympathy. She'd just complain about how much laundry detergent I used and scold me.

"You're not sick! What are you whining about? Ashley, remember, if it weren't for your sister, you wouldn't even be here. Be grateful. Take care of your sister."

Because of gratitude, I never had a full meal growing up. My clothes were Chloe’s hand-me-downs, ripped and faded.

Because of gratitude, I went to school by day and helped at the food truck at night. Every penny I earned went to Chloe’s supplements.

I never complained. I kept thinking that once I finished college and got a job, things would get better.

But Mom forced me to drop out before graduation. S...