Chapter 2

I covered my right eye and collapsed onto the floor, hearing Claire laughing.

“Why must you have such pretty eyes?”

By the time we got to the hospital, it was already too late.

Claire threw herself into Mom’s arms, crying and insisting she hadn’t meant to do it, that she was only playing around and never realized how much harm it would cause.

Mom held her close, patting her back.

“It’s okay, darling. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Then she turned to me and said, “Claire didn’t do it on purpose. Don’t blame her.”

I lay on the hospital bed, my right eye covered with gauze, staring at Mom.

“Mom, my eye…”

“The doctor said there’s no way to save it. You’ll be fine using your left eye from now on.”

After saying that, she lowered her head and continued comforting Claire, wiping away her tears with a tissue.

I was fifteen that year. Holding back my tears, I accepted the fact that Mom didn’t love me.

I got used to seeing with only one eye. I got used to the darkness that filled the space where my right eye should have been.

Sometimes I would walk into a doorframe on my right. Sometimes I would spill water while pouring it. If I read for too long, my left eye would ache until tears came.

No one ever noticed.

One day, Claire walked past me.

“Does your eye still hurt today?”

I froze for a moment. It had been a long time since she had asked about my eye.

“No, it doesn’t,” I said.

She nodded and took another step forward before turning back.

“That’s good. It wouldn’t matter even if it did hurt, anyway. Right?”

She blinked, the corners of her lips curling into a triumphant smile.

After washing the dishes, I walked into the living room.

Mom was brushing Claire’s hair, chatting as she did.

“Our darling Claire has such beautiful hair. Just like mine.”

Claire whined, “Mom, gentler,” and Mom laughed, immediately softening her touch.

My hair was long too, but Mom had never brushed it for me.

When I was little, whenever my hair grew long, she would take me to have it cut and sold.

The money then went toward buying pretty dresses for Claire.

I stood there with my choppy, uneven hair, watching her braid Claire’s hair, like a rat living in a gutter, looking up at the light.

The moment it saw sunlight, it would be burned.

Claire was that sunlight. Whenever I saw her long hair, my eyes would sting.

I walked past them without either of them noticing me.

Back in my room, I closed the door.

The desk lamp shone on the paper as I prepared to start my homework.

From the living room came Mom’s voice.

“Claire, your birthday is next week. I ordered you a big cake. How many classmates do you want to invite over?”

Claire’s birthday was also mine.

We had been brought home on the same day, but I had never celebrated my birthday.

When I was little, there was one year when I asked Mom why Claire got a cake while I didn’t.

She said, “Claire is our biological daughter. You’re not. You need to learn to mind your place.”

I was six that year.

From that day on, I understood everything.

Claire had been kidnapped by human traffickers, and I had been found alongside her.

The two babies were less than a month old and looked nearly identical.

After the DNA test, Mom and Dad took their biological daughter home. Perhaps they felt that I was somehow meant to be part of their family, and brought me along as well, raising me alongside her as their adopted eldest daughter.

I finished the practice exam, turned off the desk lamp, and sat in the darkness for a while.

Then I remembered the conversation between the two teachers.

Two people with type O blood absolutely could not have a child with type B blood.

Then, was it possible that the test all those years ago had been wrong?

I took a deep breath.

The possibility struck me as utterly absurd.

I closed my eyes, not daring to let the thought go any further.

Part of me was even afraid of the hypothetical outcome.