I still remember the day Emma arrived.
I was five when Mom and Dad told me I was going to be a big sister. They promised a lifelong friend. What they didn’t mention was that I’d become invisible.
Before Emma, I was their world—surprise cupcakes after school, bedtime stories, warm snuggles. But the moment she stepped through the door, everything changed. Her cries drew instant attention. Her needs eclipsed mine. My scraped knees or school performances faded into the background.
As the years passed, the gap widened. By the time Emma was walking and talking, I was pouring my own cereal and packing my own backpack. If I asked for help, I was “too needy.” Emma’s smallest sigh, meanwhile, sparked a flurry of care. Birthdays, recitals, injuries—my big moments were quietly overshadowed by her louder ones.
Fast-forward twenty years. I was thirty, raising my bright, curious three-year-old son, Theo, on my own. His father left before he was born. I stitched together our life with the help of friends and the occasional contribution from my parents. They weren’t cruel—just selectively generous. From the moment Emma had her son, Cody, they treated him like their third child—new clothes, music lessons, babysitting on demand. I was still around, just part of the scenery.
Then, last month, everything changed.
I collapsed at work, clutching my side. A ruptured ovarian cyst sent me to the ER and into emergency surgery. Groggy and scared, my first thought was of Theo. Who would care for him?
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