After the Unchosen Daughter Left, They Regretted Everything

“Doctor, please look at my daughter! Flying debris scraped her arm!”

Mom’s frantic voice rose above the groans inside the medical tent.

She pulled Chloe to the triage station and thrust her arm toward the exhausted doctor.

My sister’s white windbreaker was still almost spotless. There was a little ash along the hem and a faint red mark on her forearm, barely half an inch long.

It hadn’t even broken the skin.

The doctor glanced at it.

“She’s fine. Clean it with an antiseptic wipe and let us treat the critical patients.”

“That’s it?” Dad pushed his way forward. “What if it gets infected?”

“Chloe has always had a weak immune system,” Mom added. “You can’t just dismiss her without examining her.”

Chloe hid behind Dad and tugged at his sleeve.

“Dad, I’m okay. I scraped it against the doorframe when we ran out.”

“You were still terrified,” Mom said, stroking her hair. She pulled an unopened bottle of water from her purse. “Drink something, sweetheart. When I saw the house burning, I thought my heart had stopped.”

I sat on a folding chair less than six feet away.

Blood dripped steadily from the bottom of my right foot.

I had lost one flip-flop while dragging Chloe out of the house. Then I’d run barefoot across broken glass, gravel, and burning debris.

A deep gash stretched across my sole, packed with ash and dirt.

A young nurse crouched in front of me with a wound-care kit. The moment she saw my foot, she sucked in a breath.

“This needs stitches.” She glanced around. “Is there someone here with you? I’d like someone to help keep your leg still while I clean it.”

I looked down at the basin beneath my foot. The water had already turned pink with blood.

“No.”

My voice came out surprisingly calm.

“I can hold it still myself.”

The nurse hesitated, then glanced toward the three people gathered around Chloe.

“Are those your parents? You and that girl look alike.”

“They’re not with me.”

I lifted my leg onto the metal footrest.

“Please just do it.”

She didn’t ask again.

The first stream of antiseptic hit the open wound, and pain shot through my entire leg. My fingers locked around the edges of the chair.

I didn’t make a sound.

This wasn’t the first time my parents had chosen Chloe.

When we were eight, Chloe and I both came down with the flu during a blizzard.

Chloe started wheezing in the middle of the night, so our parents rushed us both to the ER.

A nurse took Chloe back immediately because of her asthma. Mom went with her, and Dad followed without a second thought.

“Stay right here, Natalie,” he told me. “Your fever isn’t that bad. We’ll come get you soon.”

I sat alone in the waiting room for the rest of the night.

By morning, I was barely conscious. It was a nurse—not either of my parents—who noticed I had collapsed across three plastic chairs.

My fever was dangerously high, and the flu had already developed into pneumonia.

I spent the next four days in the hospital.

Mom blamed me for not telling anyone I was getting worse.

Dad said I had always made things harder than they needed to be.

Nothing had changed.

The nurse injected a local anesthetic around the wound, but the pressure of the needle still made my stomach twist. Five stitches later, sweat soaked my hairline.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and collected a small bag of antibiotics and bandages.

By the time I limped out of the medical tent, my parents were already heading toward the road.

Dad kept one protective arm around Chloe’s shoulders.

Mom walked beside her, dabbing antiseptic over the red mark that had already disappeared.

I followed nearly twenty feet behind them.

“There’s an evacuation shuttle up ahead,” Dad said. “It’ll take us to the county relief center. We’ll find a hotel from there.”

Chloe nodded, then suddenly looked over her shoulder.

“Where’s Natalie? I didn’t see where she went after we got out.”

Mom turned around.

Her gaze finally landed on me beneath the emergency floodlights—one foot bare, my jeans streaked with blood.

Her face changed.

“Natalie—what happened to you?”

She took a step toward me, but Chloe suddenly started coughing behind her.

“Mom,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’m having trouble breathing again.”

Mom spun around immediately.

“Slow breaths, sweetheart. Where’s your inhaler?”

Dad hurried to Chloe’s side, then glanced back at me.

His eyes dropped to the bandage wrapped around my foot.

“You’ve already seen a nurse?”

I nodded.

The concern on his face faded into impatience.

“Then you’re taken care of. Come on—the shuttle’s about to leave.”

Mom wrapped an arm around Chloe and guided her toward the bus without asking how badly I was hurt.

“Try to keep up, Natalie,” Dad called over his shoulder. “Your sister has been through enough today. Don’t make her worry about you too.”

I looked down at the five fresh stitches in my foot.

Somehow, even bleeding, I was still the one causing trouble.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out and saw an email from Cambridge.

Thank you for accepting your place in our finance exchange program. We look forward to welcoming you.

Ahead of me, Dad helped Chloe onto the evacuation shuttle. Mom climbed in after them without looking back.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and limped toward the bus.

My flight to London left in exactly seventy-two hours.

Just three more days.

Then I would finally be free of them.