Her Life for Mine

My name is Noelle Langston. I was named after my brother, Noah.

Noah was seven years older than me. Before I was born, he fell gravely ill.

My grandmother, Elizabeth Cole, said that they had taken him everywhere for treatment—first to the village doctor, then to a major hospital in the city. He was diagnosed with leukemia, and they were told that there was no cure.

My parents, Irene Hudson and John Langston, didn't quite understand what leukemia meant, and could only say, "We'll find the money for his treatment."

The doctor looked them up and down. Then, he shook his head.

"He has acute leukemia, and it's already progressed to the late stages. The malignant white blood cells are proliferating and inhibiting the growth of his other bone marrow cells. Even with treatment…"

Upon hearing this, Mom fainted on the spot. When she woke up, she found herself surrounded by people. Grandma and Dad were standing beside her. Both of them were in tears.

"You're pregnant with another child, Irene."

My mother instinctively touched her belly. Glancing at Grandma, she asked, "What about my son?"

Dad lowered his head and couldn't meet her gaze. Grandma, on the other hand, gave her a firm answer.

Our family only had ten thousand dollars left to our name. They had decided to spend what little money they had left on Noah's treatment while letting Mom carry me to term. If he couldn't survive, then so be it.

Unfortunately, Noah died eight months later, on the day I was born.

My relatives claimed that I had stolen his life. Deep down, Mom believed it too. That was why she always looked at me with resentment.

I knew she hated me. In fact, I was named Noelle to remember my brother.

I was never close to her. So, I didn't dare to ask her what she truly thought of me.

As far as I could remember, she was always working away from home. Every year, she would send Grandma money so the latter could raise me instead.

On the rare occasions that I got to see her, she would only stare fixedly at my body. Her gaze was cold and piercing, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

"You've grown again." I'd hear her say. "If Noah were your age…"

Her gaze eventually fell on my eyes.

Grandma used to say that I looked a lot like Noah—especially my eyes.

When no one else was at home, Mom would pinch me in sensitive spots that wouldn't show, like under my arms and the inside of my thighs.

When I teared up from the pain, she sneered, "Stop crying, you useless thing. If it weren't for you, your brother would still be alive."

I wanted to tell her that it wasn't my fault, but she would only pinch harder. Eventually, I learned to keep quiet instead.

Sometimes, she would caress my hair instead. While brushing her fingers across my eyes, she'd gently murmur, "My boy."

She wasn't talking to me—she was speaking to Noah.

In this home, no one treated me better than Grandma did.

Whenever Mom and I were alone, she always seemed to know that I was in pain. Then, she'd come over and pull me away from Mom.

"Noelle is sick," she would say in a strangely gentle voice. "She needs her medication."

She was right—I was sick.

When I was very young, Mom and Grandma claimed that I was ill, even though I was no different from anyone else. Then, after I developed a stubborn fever a while ago, they made me take my medication even more frequently.

I was given three doses of herbal medicine a day, like clockwork. Whenever I refused, Grandma would berate me and claim that I was destined to live a short life.

I wasn't sick. So why did I have to swallow these nasty medications?

Besides, did she really think that I didn't know any better?

Every night, Grandma would stand by my bed and call out Noah's name. On top of that, she would make me say his name in front of his urn before I went to bed.

According to the elderly people in the village, Grandma was trying to recall a spirit. She wanted Noah to return and take my place.