In the fifth year after I legally severed ties with my family, I waited on a familiar table of guests at the restaurant where I worked. As I carried their pre-ordered cake into the private dining room, the family of three suddenly froze. I didn't blink. I sang "Happy Birthday," placed the cake on the table, and politely closed the door behind me. But a moment later, the daughter chased me out into the hallway, holding out a slice of cake on a small plate. "Mom told me to bring this to you. Today is your birthday too." "In all the years you've been gone, Mom and Dad talk about you every single day. They're getting older. Just come home, okay?" The young woman's eyes actually welled up with tears as she spoke. I remained perfectly polite, utterly detached, and gave a slight shake of my head. The next second, the slice of cake was smashed forcefully against my chest. An older woman stormed out of the room, screaming: "What did we ever do to mistreat you?! Why do you hate us this much?!" I quietly looked at the young woman standing in front of me—my identical twin sister. I thought about it for a second. Probably because her name was "Hope." And my name was "Blight." 1 The commotion in the hallway was loud. When my parents rushed out of the private room, their eyes instinctively locked onto Hope first. "Hope, sweetie, are you okay? Don't be upset, baby." My mother, always the emotional one, wrapped her arms around Hope, who was trembling with manufactured anger. My mother's eyes were red. I quietly pulled some paper towels from an apron pocket and began wiping the frosting off my uniform. Out of habit, I didn't say a word. The man, who had initially swallowed his reprimand, suddenly exploded when he saw my passive reaction. "Blight, this is your mother and your sister! What kind of attitude is that?! You disappear without a word for five years, and the first time we see you, you decide to throw a tantrum and show us up?!" Hearing that name again after five years—the name I despised from the absolute bottom of my soul—still made my stomach physically churn. My breath hitched for a second. When I looked up again, I flashed a perfect, corporate customer-service smile. "I apologize, sir. My name is Maya." "If you don't need anything else from me, I'm going to step away to clean my uniform, so I don't ruin your appetite." Five years of grinding through the real world had taught me not to act on impulse. After delivering my lines smoothly, I turned and walked away. Behind me, the three of them stood frozen in place, as if they'd been struck by lightning. They probably never imagined that the hysterical, scorched-earth daughter who had severed ties with them would ever become so polished and detached. ... By the time I finished my shift and cleaned up, it was late at night. Just as I walked up to the bus stop, a car slowly pulled up to the curb right in front of me. The window rolled down, revealing my mother's cautious face. "It's too late. Let me give you a ride." Seemingly afraid I would refuse, she quickly added, "It's just Mom. Just let Mom give you a ride, okay?" The flickering streetlights reflected in her eager eyes. The sight of it almost made me laugh. My mother, a renowned child psychologist, was always so confident. She honestly believed that if she just showed up, she could win me back. I had seen this exact tactic when I was a child. But I wasn't a child anymore. "No need. My roommate is on her way to pick me up." Clearly not expecting a rejection, she looked stunned for a moment, but stubbornly refused to drive away. I knew she probably thought I was just making up an excuse. But I had no desire to explain anything to her. There was no point. 2 When my mother first got pregnant, she had a strong feeling she was having a girl. She picked out the name "Hope" very early on. She was at the absolute peak of her career. As a child psychologist, she had seen her fair share of broken, unhappy families, so she was absolutely determined to give her child a life filled with hope and light. Unfortunately, she had identical twin girls. The delivery was horrific; she suffered a massive hemorrhage and nearly died. Lying in her hospital bed, weak and exhausted, her eyes burned with an astonishing level of resentment. "Name one Hope, and name the other one Blight. She's just an unwanted extra anyway. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have almost died!" And so, the second-born twin—me—was burdened with the sin of nearly killing my mother before I even opened my eyes. For the next few years, I was always the forgotten one. For a busy professional like my mother, taking care of one child was already exhausting. When it came to the "extra" child, she just did the bare minimum to keep me alive. Because of this, Hope constantly used our identical faces to her advantage, eating my portions of food without anyone ever noticing. One night, I was so hungry my stomach cramped. I sneaked into the kitchen. I knew there was half a cup of yogurt left in the fridge from what Hope had been eating. Earlier that day, after she finished my portion of yogurt, she was too full to finish her own. She whined to my mother to put it in the fridge so she could eat it tomorrow. "Mommy, this is my yogurt. You can't give it to Blight," she had insisted repeatedly. I stared at my mother, desperately wanting to expose the lie. But the moment I opened my mouth, I was impatiently cut off: "Blight, I told you, you and your sister get one cup each! You are not allowed to steal from your sister!" But I was so incredibly hungry. I was so hungry I couldn't sleep. I'll just take a tiny taste. Nobody will notice, I thought. I held the yogurt cup, dipped my finger in, and licked it. It tasted amazing. But the very next second, I was caught by Hope, who had followed me. The house lit up as she started screaming and crying. I stared at the yogurt that had spilled all over the floor from the shock, completely terrified and lost. "Blight! You're learning how to steal at this age?! Didn't I tell you this belonged to your sister?! Are you that much of a glutton?!" My mother hugged a sobbing, hiccuping Hope and screamed at me. Hope kept going: "Actually, my sister always steals my snacks..." Lie. She was the one who constantly stole my snacks! "And at lunch, my sister didn't like the steak you made, Mommy. I said I would eat it, but she just threw it in the trash and said she'd rather throw it away than give it to me..." Lie. I didn't throw that steak away on purpose. She didn't like it, but she refused to let me eat it. My mother stroked a rambling Hope's hair, her eyes filled with nothing but heartbreak for her. I panicked. "No, Mommy, it's not true! It's not what she said!" I wanted to defend myself, but I was terrible with words. All I could do was repeat, "It wasn't me," and "I didn't steal it," over and over again. "I didn't pick the wrong name for you. You really do live up to your name. You're a blight, rotten right down to the root. Blight, how did I ever give birth to a bad seed like you?!" Beep! The sound of a horn pulled me out of my memories. My roommate pulled up on her electric scooter. Just as I was about to climb onto the back seat, my mother actually stepped out of her car. "Blight... are you really choosing to ride on that piece of junk instead of getting in my car? It's freezing tonight. Why do you insist on making yourself suffer like this?" She reached out to grab my arm. My response was to ruthlessly slap her hand away. "Mrs. Miller," I still addressed her formally. "Isn't everything I am today entirely your doing?" 3 Years of neglect and false accusations molded me into someone extremely sensitive and quick to anger. I was the absolute polar opposite of Hope, who had excellent grades, a sunny personality, and was the textbook example of my mother's perfect parenting. "Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, we asked you to come in today regarding a bullying incident involving Blight. She put an allergen into a classmate's water bottle. The student is currently in the hospital." "The school has a zero-tolerance policy for bullying. We have decided to expel Blight." Before arriving at the principal's office, I had absolutely no idea what was going on. Sure, my grades were terrible, I hated talking to people, and I looked like someone you didn't want to mess with. But I strictly lived by the rule: If you don't mess with me, I won't mess with you. I barely even knew the classmate they were talking about. I immediately knew it was Hope. She used our identical faces to do something horrible and pinned it on me. Half of my terrible reputation was a direct result of her actions. If it were the usual petty gossip, I wouldn't have bothered explaining. But I didn't want to be expelled. "Hope brought mangoes from home this morning. I didn't put them in the bottle." I stared intensely at the two people sitting in front of me—the people I biologically belonged to, but refused to acknowledge as parents. It wasn't until the words left my mouth that I realized my palms were sweating profusely from anxiety. I forced my chin up, confronting them. "It wasn't me. Hope did it. She was jealous because that girl took the number one rank in the grade from her last week." Their faces were dark. My father was the first to let out a cold snort. "Look at the wonderful daughter you raised! You call yourself a child psychologist, and you can't even teach your own child!" With that, he turned and walked out, completely washing his hands of the situation, just like he always did. My mother despised anyone using her proud career as a weapon against her. She spun around and delivered a vicious slap, snapping my head to the side. She pointed a shaking finger at me, screaming that I was a "failure." "Hope has always had perfect grades! Why would she be jealous of anyone?! Blight, you are truly beyond saving. You actually tried to drag your sister down with you!" I was forcibly expelled. Locked in the house all day, I eventually developed severe bipolar disorder. Most days, I just lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, letting time waste away. Forgetting to eat for an entire day was normal. My family treated me like I was invisible. They only checked in to make sure I was still breathing. To them, it was better that I didn't have the energy to cause trouble. One day, I turned on the TV, and by pure coincidence, an interview with my mother was playing. The interviewer asked, "What is your perspective on the increasingly severe mental health issues among teenagers in modern society?" On TV, my mother looked infinitely kinder and more approachable than she ever did with me. She smiled and said, "A child's psychological issues mostly stem from parental neglect. We need to start with the parents, building bridges of communication..." "With a mother like you, your child must be incredibly outstanding," the interviewer marveled. She nodded in agreement. "Yes, I have an incredibly outstanding daughter. Her name is—" "Hope." 4 I smashed the TV. But to them, I was just "throwing another tantrum." My mother couldn't even be bothered to look at me. I stood barefoot amidst the shattered glass and plastic, the soles of my feet sliced open and bleeding. From that day on, I started acting out with a vengeance. Since my mother refused to acknowledge me as her daughter, I was going to violently prove my existence. I stopped coming home at night. I stopped going to school. I learned how to smoke, how to drink, and how to waste my days in internet cafes. I was willing to destroy myself if it meant inflicting damage on them. Even though it brought me zero pleasure, I still used every ounce of my energy to torture them. I went back to the internet cafe. Sitting in front of the computer, I started staring into space again. I didn't actually want to use the computer; it was just a habit to sit there for two hours. It was enough time for my clothes to soak up the smell of stale cigarette smoke, just so I could go home and piss off my mother. But that day, I met Julian. The only light I would ever have in the first half of my life. When I saw him sneaking into the internet cafe, trying to hide his face, I couldn't believe it. After all, this was "delinquent behavior" according to my mother. I never imagined Julian—the genius math Olympiad champion—would ever set foot in a place like this. Logically, a complete academic failure like me shouldn't have ever had the chance to meet Julian. But ironically, he was the object of Hope's intense jealousy and admiration. Hope was ranked number one in our grade, but that was only because Julian was fully focused on national competitions and didn't take the regular school exams. She absolutely hated it when people said that if Julian came back to regular classes, she would have to step down from the throne. Over time, I had constructed an image of an untouchable genius based on her complaints. He was completely different from the clumsy guy sitting next to me, who couldn't even figure out where the power button on the PC tower was. I leaned over and pressed the power button for him. "Thanks." He smiled sheepishly. After that, I always saw Julian in the exact same seat on Friday afternoons. As time went on, we got to know each other. He told me his family was incredibly strict. He only had two short hours of free time on Friday afternoons. "I actually hate the math competitions. It's incredibly dry and boring, and studying for it is exhausting. But my parents exhaust themselves trying to push me to the top, so all I can do is sneak out to relax for a bit." "Maya, please keep my secret." I hadn't told him my real name. The word "Blight" was too ugly. I didn't want to hear it coming from his mouth. I had wondered countless times why my mother couldn't have named me something normal, like Maya. That way, I could be Maya, and that other person could be Blight. Julian and I always played co-op games together. He would tell me all the school gossip, even though I had been expelled a long time ago. Sometimes, he would bring me snacks—cake, chocolate... The first time I drank the yogurt he brought me, I cried. "What's wrong? Does it taste bad? I won't bring it next time," he panicked, clumsily trying to wipe my tears, looking completely devastated. I let myself enjoy the feeling of being cared for. With tears shining in my eyes, I smiled and replied: "This is the first time I've ever had yogurt. It's so good, it's so good I could cry!" We became best friends who talked about everything. The distance between us closed rapidly. My mental health issues were finally under control, and everything seemed to be moving in a positive direction. We were in the noisy internet cafe, in the middle of a co-op match, when the guy next to us raged at his game and violently threw his water cup across the desk. I was sitting right next to him and jumped out of my skin. When I regained my senses, I realized Julian had instinctively pulled me into his arms, shielding me. Wrapped in a tight embrace, I looked up, just as he looked down. "Are you okay? Did it scare you?" I shook my head. Our breaths tangled together, and my face instantly flushed burning red. Julian froze for a second, then awkwardly pulled away. We went back to our game, but neither of us could focus. Suddenly, my pinky finger was hooked by his. I turned my head and met Julian's youthful, slightly nervous face. "Maya, let's go out," he said. I felt like I had been hit by a truck made of pure joy. My face turned bright red, and I had no idea what to do. Julian, however, immediately regretted his delivery. "Oh man, I should have prepared a proper, formal confession for you." I still remember telling him it didn't matter, that he could just give me one later. But later, in the dead of night, waking up from nightmares, I would always cry and whisper: "Don't be with me." I'll ruin you.
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