The Only Normal One

My older sister, Ava, has autism. My younger brother, Leo, has Paranoid Personality Disorder. Because of this, Mom devoted her life to Ava, and Dad spent all his time taking Leo to specialists. No one remembered me. I was the one left behind. Even when I called once a month, begging for my overdue allowance, they only had harsh words for me. "Your sister is sick! Can’t you stop spending money like water?" "Your brother finally had a good day, and here you are trying to steal the spotlight. You selfish brat!" None of them ever listened long enough for me to finish my sentence. So, naturally, none of them knew— I have stage four stomach cancer. And barring a miracle, I’m going to leave this world before any of them. 1 My whole family is sick. Mentally sick. As the only "normal" child in the house, I was also the most disposable. From the moment I could understand words, Mom drilled one thing into my head: "Mia, you have to remember, you were born to take care of Ava." "If it weren't for your sister’s condition, we wouldn't have had you. You need to be grateful. You need to be sensible. Ava always comes first." "When we get old, you take over. You’ll look after her for the rest of her life." Back then, I didn't understand what autism was. I just knew Ava never talked to me. She never talked to anyone. She sat in her room, repeating the same motion over and over—lining up her toys by color, knocking them down, and lining them up again. Before my brother Leo was born, Dad was the only light in my childhood. He used to lift me high above his head, his eyes burning with hope. "My Mia is amazing! So healthy, so smart! This proves there’s nothing wrong with my genes!" He would count on his fingers, planning the future. "Once I give you a little brother, our family line will be secure!" Dad’s large hand would ruffle my hair, his rough palm warm against my head. "Your brother is going to be just like you—healthy and bright!" That period of being "the hope of the family" is the only warmth I remember. He bought me the prettiest dolls. He let me win at checkers. He even taught me how to paint. Until Leo was born. The diagnosis—Paranoid Personality Disorder—hit Dad like a sledgehammer. It shattered his dreams. And it shattered me. Dad’s hope turned into despair. And that despair needed a target. I became that target. One day, I ran up to him, holding a painting I’d just finished, eager for praise. "Daddy, look! My teacher gave me a gold star!" On the paper, I had painted a sunrise with the words: Reach for the Stars. He didn't take it. He didn't even look down. He stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed on me with a look I’d never seen before. It wasn't disappointment. It was hatred. He snatched the paper and ripped it to shreds. Rip. Rip. "Reach for the stars? What use is a girl reaching for the stars?" His eyes were bloodshot, his voice sounding like a broken bellows. "Why you? Why do you get the luck? Why do you get the healthy body? Why couldn't it be your brother? You stole his luck! You useless waste of space!" I looked at the confetti on the floor. "Daddy, I didn't steal..." "Shut up!" he roared. "From now on, stay out of my sight! Just looking at you makes me sick!" I never saw my father smile again. That was the day my childhood lost its color. 2 Leo’s birth was the final straw that broke our already fragile home. Autism and Paranoid Personality Disorder are like oil and water. Under one roof, they were a recipe for constant chaos. Ava’s world was a straight line. Everything had to be in its exact place. Schedules had to be precise to the second. She would scream for hours if Leo moved her water cup. She would refuse to eat if there was an extra spoon on the table. Leo’s world was a web of conspiracies. Any deviation from his expectations was a personal attack. He was convinced Ava placed things in his "safe zone" just to provoke him. He believed someone had planted listening devices in his room to watch him sleep. One screamed. One raged. Day after day, year after year, the house was a war zone. Dad and Mom became like guard dogs, each protecting their chosen broken child. And me? The "normal" one? I was trapped between two hysterical patients. A speck of dust no one cared about. Even breathing too loud felt like a crime. I learned to turn my headphones up to max volume, burying my head in my homework amidst the screaming and crying. But even that peace was a luxury. Sometimes Leo would burst into my room, tearing through my backpack, accusing me of hiding recording devices. Ava would stand in front of me, asking the same question in a flat monotone. Once, twice, ten times. If I zoned out and didn't answer immediately, she would start banging her head against the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud. I was terrified. But whenever I begged Mom and Dad for help, they gave me the same line: "Mia, you're the only normal one. You have to be the bigger person. You have to understand them." Every. Single. Time. It was as if being "normal" was my sin, and suffering was my penance. When I was twelve, the family finally fell apart. After a particularly violent episode, the house went dead silent. Mom calmly packed a suitcase with her and Ava’s clothes. She patted Ava’s head, then turned to me. Her voice sounded exhausted. "Mia, I'm taking Ava to Grandma’s countryside house. It’s quiet there." She paused. I looked at her with wide, hopeful eyes, waiting for the words: You’re coming with us. But she looked away. Dad’s voice came from behind me. "I'm taking Leo to see specialists. We'll travel the country. I don't believe he can't be cured." I asked in a small voice, "What about me?" "You're big enough now. As the only healthy kid, you need to learn to be independent. You need to understand how hard this is for us." And just like that. One went left. One went right. They left me alone in the empty house. Dad sent a monthly allowance to his mother—my Nana—who lived nearby. In theory, she was supposed to take care of me. In reality, Nana’s world revolved around her poker games. She rarely came over. When she did, she would tear herself away from the card table just long enough to throw a few crumpled bills at me like I was a beggar. The money wasn't enough for real food. So, my three meals a day became instant oatmeal and stale saltine crackers. Late at night, when my stomach growled with hunger, I would curl up at my desk. I’d grip my pen with trembling hands, tears soaking my homework. The hunger made it hard to focus. The ink would run where my tears fell. I rewrote the assignments over and over until they were perfect. Because I stubbornly believed one thing: If I was excellent enough, if I was obedient enough, Mom and Dad would love me. Just a little bit. But when I called them, excited to say I got straight A's again, the receiver only delivered impatience. "What now? You need money again? Mia, we gave you a healthy body, that’s the greatest gift of all! Why can't you be considerate of our struggles?" "Your sister had an episode yesterday, I don't have the energy for this!" I don't remember when I stopped calling. I knew the script. They never had time. They never cared. It’s okay, I told myself. Get into college. Get out of this town. Escape. Then came the acceptance letter from my dream university. I thought my life was finally about to start. I thought the suffering was over. Then came the diagnosis. Stomach cancer. Stage IV. Turns out, I wasn't the only "normal" child after all. I was just the one who got sick last. 3 The doctor said I might only have three months. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the paper. After the panic and the cold dread settled, my first thought was: I need to tell Mom and Dad. Surely, now they would care? Just like they cared about Ava’s autism and Leo’s paranoia. I was a "sick child" now, too. With trembling fingers, I took a photo of the diagnosis. I opened the family group chat named "Family Forever." I hit send. Almost instantly, a stream of gibberish flooded the screen. [#$%%...&))&...%#@!] [sdg87s6d8g76s] [#%@&LittleBunnyFooFoo&%#] It was Ava. She had Mom’s phone again. The nonsense symbols pushed my diagnosis off the screen. Then, the chat went silent. No one responded. Maybe... maybe they missed it? I comforted myself and sent it again. This time, the reply came fast. It was Mom. My heart leaped. Tears welled up. Finally. Finally, someone was going to care about me. But the text that came through felt like an icicle stabbed through my chest. Mom: [Mia, are you annoying or what? Posting the same photo twice. What's there to look at?] They didn't miss it. They just ignored it. My stomach cramped violently. I tried to type, tried to explain that it wasn't just a picture, it was a death sentence. But my hands wouldn't cooperate. Before I could type a word, Mom’s second message popped up. Mom: [Did you Photoshop this?] Mom: [I’m telling you, don't be like my coworker’s daughter who faked depression just to get out of freshman orientation. Don't think you can fool everyone.] Mom: [You're young. Stop thinking of crooked ways to get attention. It’s bad luck to curse yourself with sickness.] Mom: [Your Nana cooks for you three times a day. You live like a queen. How could you possibly have stomach cancer?] Three times a day? When did Nana ever cook for me? Mom didn't know that my meals were cold instant soup and pickles I made last a week. She didn't know how thin I’d become. I looked at my wrist. The bone protruded sharply; the veins were visible under translucent skin. Does an eighteen-year-old girl look like this? She only knew how to care for Ava. If Ava got a papercut, Mom would cry and examine it with a magnifying glass. But for me? Nothing. My fingers shook as I typed: [Mom, it’s true. I’m not lying.] As soon as I hit send, Dad’s profile picture popped up. He sent a voice note. His tone dripped with mockery and disgust. "I just wired your tuition money. You want a new iPhone already? Or is it a laptop this time? Mia, I didn't know you were this manipulative. Using illness to scam money from your family?" I didn't want money. I just wanted to tell them I was dying. I just wanted a tiny crumb of love in my last three months. [It’s not a scam! It’s real! I’m not lying to you!!] [Mom, Dad, can you please come home and see me?] [Please. The doctor says I have three months at most.] I typed frantically, tears blurring my vision. Then Leo chimed in. Leo: [Sis, your acting is getting better.] Leo: [Nice script. Stage IV Stomach Cancer. Tragic. Much more creative than the depression angle you tried last time.] His words were like needles. I remembered now. Before finals, during the darkest days, I gathered the courage to tell them I thought I was mentally ill. They screamed at me. Said I was lazy. Said I couldn't handle the pressure of school. Said if I didn't want to study, I should go work in a factory. It ended with me apologizing to them. I bit my lip until I tasted rust. Dad jumped in again. Dad: [Leo is right! Mia, are you done? Don't think I don't know what you're doing! Leo analyzed it perfectly. You're jealous of the money we spend on his treatments, so you're throwing a tantrum!] Mom joined the pile-on. Mom: [Can you stop acting crazy? Your sister is getting upset because of the noise on my phone! She won't eat dinner now!] Mom: [Why can't you be sensible? We didn't raise you to be a burden!] Dad: [I’m sending your Nana over to check on you. We’ll see if you’re actually sick!] Dad: [Stop these childish games. You're an embarrassment.] The group went silent again. I waited all afternoon. From noon until sunset. Nana never came. The pain in my stomach grew vicious. At first, it was a dull ache, but now it felt like hot pliers twisting my insides. I curled up on the sofa, every breath burning. Cold sweat soaked my hairline. I remembered the doctor’s words: The pain will get more frequent and more intense. Eventually, painkillers won't touch it. 4 It was pitch black outside when my phone finally dinged. It was a screenshot from Dad. It showed a text conversation between him and Nana. Nana had sent Dad a photo. In the picture, I was wearing a long-sleeved hoodie, sitting at my desk, profile to the camera. Outside the window, the leaves were fresh green. The sunlight was soft. I recognized it instantly. It was taken this past spring. Right now, it was the height of summer. It was sweltering hot. Nana: [Son, Mia is fine. She eats, she sleeps, she’s full of energy.] Nana: [Don't listen to her nonsense. I take good care of her. You just focus on Leo’s treatment.] Then, Dad’s messages to me started popping up. Dad: [I saw the photo Nana took. You look perfectly healthy. Still trying to scam us?] Dad: [Mia, what is wrong with you? Do you know how much your brother’s bills are? Why do you have to cause trouble now?] Dad: [I raised a liar. You are nothing but stress!] Cause trouble. So, dying is just causing trouble. I started to laugh. I laughed at my father, who would rather believe a blatantly old photo than his own daughter’s begging. I laughed at my grandmother, who would dig up an old picture to save herself a trip so she could get back to her card game. I laughed until I cried. Buzz. A text from the bank: [Your savings account ending in 8848 has been frozen. Please contact your branch.] I froze. That account held my tuition money. Before I could process it, Dad messaged again. Dad: [Since you claim you have stomach cancer, I’m moving your tuition money to pay for Leo’s treatment. You won't be going to college anyway.] The last shred of fantasy I held about my family—about love—was shredded. Let it freeze. I wasn't going to school anyway. What does a dying girl need a degree for? I don't want this family anymore. 5 I turned off my phone and lay paralyzed on the sofa. The room was terrifyingly quiet. Only the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. A countdown. Every second reminded me: My time is running out. I wanted to see the ocean. The thought came out of nowhere. I had never left this small, landlocked town. Mom and Dad took Ava and Leo everywhere for treatments, but they never asked where I wanted to go. I’d only seen the blue sea on TV. I checked the cash I had left. Just enough for the cheapest train ticket to Sea City. It was the closest coastal town on the map. Before leaving, I opened the "Family Forever" chat one last time. Mom was posting about what Ava ate. Dad was updating on Leo’s therapy. I stared at the screen for a long time. I didn't type anything. Forget it. Let it end like this. On the train, I curled into the corner of the hard seat. Waves of pain made me sweat through my clothes. But the thought of the ocean kept me upright. After three bumpy hours, I arrived. Stepping out of the station, the salty wind hit my face. It was cool and wet. The real ocean was nothing like TV. It was vast. Deep. Overwhelming. Waves rolled in, carrying an endless power. I found a quiet spot on some rocks and sat down. I listened to the water crashing against the stone. The pain hit again. Worse than ever before. I couldn't stand up. I hugged my knees, gasping. "Miss? Are you okay?" An aged, rough voice sounded near my ear. I looked up to see an old fisherman with white hair looking at me with concern. His eyes were gentle. They looked like Dad’s eyes used to look. "I'm fine," I forced a smile. "You look terrible. Should I take you to the clinic?" I shook my head. "No need. Thank you." It was pointless. I just wanted to be quiet. To feel the last bit of beauty the world had to offer. The old man seemed to understand. He didn't push. He just quietly mended his nets nearby, glancing at me every now and then. Sunset dyed the water gold. I used my finger to write my name in the sand—Mia Li. A wave rushed in and washed it away instantly. Just like my life. Here, but leaving no trace. But in that moment, I didn't feel sad. I felt released. Maybe this was the ending I wanted. A quiet goodbye by the blue sea.

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