The Number on the Scale Is My Epitaph

I've always had a small appetite. I start feeling nauseated and throw up if I eat more than seven ounces of food in a meal. As a result, I'm 44 pounds lighter than my younger sister, Charlotte Lancaster, who is six years younger than me. Every time I watch Charlotte eat heartily, stuffing herself with all sorts of food and meat, I feel a secret thrill. I look at my slender wrists and prominent ribs, and I feel proud of myself. Sometimes, Mom cries and asks why I've become like this. Seeing how much my condition hurts her makes me feel satisfied. Dad runs himself ragged making appointments with specialists for me, working so hard that his hair turns white. Yet I feel strangely happy. When the psychologist, Dr. Folston, asks if there's some deep-seated emotional issue holding me back, I shake my head and tell her that I have always been favored and spoiled by my parents since I was little. How could I possibly have any emotional baggage? It isn't until Mom completely breaks down in the consultation room that she falls to her knees and begs at my feet. "Please, forgive us. Please stop putting yourself through this, okay?"