I Died to End Their Lie

"What are you doing up in the middle of the night? Have you lost your mind?"

Mom opened the master bedroom door and glared at me. The hallway sconces were dim, but not dim enough to hide the disgust in her eyes.

I stood less than six feet away. At my feet lay the shattered remains of a drinking glass.

I raised my head. My 103-degree fever blurred the edges of everything around me, yet her expression was perfectly clear. Suspicion. Annoyance. The resentment of someone whose sleep had been interrupted.

"It slipped," I said quietly, crouching to pick up the pieces.

Mom sighed and looked down at me. "You're always so careless. Your brother has a piano competition tomorrow. If you wake him up, just wait until your father gets hold of you."

Dad's irritated voice came from the bedroom. "Forget it. Tell him to clean up and get back to his room. I'm tired of looking at him."

Mom folded her arms. "You heard him. Clean it up."

She never asked why my face was burning red. Or why my legs were shaking so hard I could barely squat.

I said nothing and closed my hand around the last shard of glass. Its sharp edge cut my index finger. Blood welled up and splashed onto the wool carpet, blooming into a small dark-red stain.

My leukemia was advanced. My blood could barely clot anymore, and within moments, it covered my palm.

Mom finally noticed.

Not because she was worried about me. She gasped at the carpet.

"Miles, did you do that on purpose? This is Nolan's favorite rug. Are you trying to tell us how unhappy you are with this family?"

I stared at the blood dripping from my fingertip. A chill settled so deep inside me that even breathing hurt.

Nineteen years.

Ever since I was six, when they'd told me I wasn't their biological child, I'd lived in this house like a thief who had to be careful not to take too much. I didn't dare ask for new clothes or spending money. I barely dared admit when I was sick.

I was terrified they'd throw me away.

Now I knew the truth. I wasn't a thief at all. I was their own son, and my parents had deliberately stripped me of every right to belong.

"I'm sorry."

I pulled my hand back and pressed my bleeding fingertip tightly into my palm.