Ever staggered further into the house, her alcohol-laden breath filling the room. Her parents exchanged uneasy glances, their disapproval of her drunken state briefly overshadowed by Emma’s worsening condition.
When they took a glimpse look at Emma, who was lying down on the couch her breath was quicken. And she trembled uncontrollably. Her skin was pale and damp with sweat.
“Ever,” her father said sharply, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and command. “Your sister is very sick. Do something!”
Ever smirked bitterly, her eyes glassy yet somewhat sharp with simmering resentment. “Why would I do anything for her?” she slurred, her voice laced with defiance. “You’ve made it clear who the real child is. You don’t care about me,” she said mockingly, as if the situation was a joke to her.
Her mother’s face tightened, but for a moment, there was no anger, only desperation. “Ever,” she pleaded, her voice softer now, “please, we’re sorry if we’ve hurt you. But Emma, she’s your sister
