Chapter 4

I continued to drift around the house I had lived in for 18 years, while my former family settled into their new life.

A noise echoed from the living room. I floated over and saw Dad taping a vision test chart to the wall.

"Come on, Everly. Let's see how far down you can read," he said, his voice brimming with anticipation and encouragement.

Mom stood nearby, nervously wringing her hands.

Everly stepped forward and clearly recited the symbols on the very bottom line.

"That's wonderful!" Mom pulled her into an embrace, her voice choking up. "As long as you can see. As long as you can see…"

Dad also smiled in relief and gently patted Everly on the back.

I froze where I stood.

I remembered last year after the school physical, when I excitedly handed Dad my report showing perfect 20/20 vision.

He had merely cast a dull glance at it, saying, "Take care of your eyes, and don't stare at your phone so much."

Back then, I thought he was just bad at giving praise.

Yet facing a fully recovered Everly, he was a completely different person.

After dinner, Mom brought out a brand-new photo album.

"Everly, let's organize the old photos so we can start adding new ones later." Mom's voice carried a lightheartedness that spoke of a fresh start.

I leaned in to look. In that thick family album, every single photo that included me had been pulled out.

Those empty slots gaped like silent holes, mocking the 18 years of my existence.

Beside them, Dad was cleaning out the bookshelf, stacking all my textbooks, novels, and even my award-winning essays together. He was preparing to throw them out as trash.

He didn't hesitate for a single second.

My certificates were still taped to the study wall. He reached out and tore them down, crumpling them into balls before tossing them into the cardboard box at his feet.

His movements were practiced, as if he were clearing away a dusty piece of junk.

Along with the certificates went my very first art assignment from kindergarten. On that paper, I had drawn the three of us with childish, clumsy brushstrokes.

Back then, Dad had even praised my drawing and bought a frame specifically to display it. Now, it was casually tossed into the trash box.

Every trace proving I had ever existed was swept away without a hint of reluctance.

Only the drawer in the study—the one kept locked year-round—remained untouched.

I floated right beside Dad, watching him. He was entirely unaware of my presence.

An old album I had never seen before slid off the top shelf, hitting the floor.

Inside were photos of two infants wearing identical outfits, with small ink handwriting beneath each frame.

Under one picture, it read, "Gemma, 100 days."

Under another, it read, "Valerie, 100 days."

I stared at them, stunned.

Gemma? Valerie?

Those two unfamiliar names pierced through me with an inexplicable pang.

Dad walked over and picked up the album with an expressionless face before tossing it into the trash box without a second glance.

"Just some useless old photos," he said flatly, as if offering an explanation, or perhaps just speaking to himself.

Mom went to prepare Everly's nighttime drink. She opened the top cabinet and took out the familiar white medicine bottle—the imported heart medication I had been taking for eight long years.

"Does she still need to take this?" Dad asked, walking in.

"The doctor said to stay on it for a while longer."

Mom routinely poured out two pills and crushed them into a powder before stirring it into some milk. "It's good for eye recovery."

I stood frozen in my tracks. Good for eye recovery?

As Mom carried the glass of milk away, a curling label peeled off the bottle and drifted to the floor.

I instinctively leaned closer, taking in the original, covered-up medication name print on the label—"Corneal Preservation Agent".

Beneath it was a line of fine print. "Used to maintain corneal viability and prevent tissue necrosis."

The weight of the truth almost shattered my spirit.

So for the past eight years, what I took on schedule every day wasn't medication to keep me alive at all.