After the car accident, my memories froze permanently at nine years old. It was the golden age—the year my parents loved me most in the world. Back then, they bought me strawberry shortcake on random Tuesdays and lowered their voices to soft, melodic whispers just to coax another bite of dinner into me. For a little while after the crash, I managed to displace my little sister, reclaiming my rightful throne as the single most precious thing in their universe. The trouble was, most days Mom spent sobbing in the laundry room, and Dad spent his nights pacing the floorboards, swallowed by insomnia. “It isn’t fair,” Mom would wail into her hands. “God, what did our sweet girl ever do to deserve this?” “June, please,” Dad would whisper, kneeling beside my bed, his stubbled cheek pressed against my knuckles. “Just come back to us. We’ll give you anything. We’ll do whatever you want.” Then came last month. A nationally renowned neurosurgeon flew in for a weekend clinic at the university hospital, and my parents pulled every string, emptied every favor, just to secure a twenty-minute consultation. “Doctor, money isn’t an issue,” Dad pleaded, leaning over the polished mahogany desk. “We just want our daughter back. The way she was.” The specialist ran me through a battery of scans—MRIs, EEGs, cognitive reflex tests. When he finally walked back into the exam room, his expression was strangely unsettled. “Mr. and Mrs. Dawson—well, to put it plainly,” the doctor said, glancing from the tablet in his hands to my parents, “there is no structural brain damage. None whatsoever.” Mom froze. Dad blinked. “She isn’t physically trapped,” the doctor continued softly. “From what the scans and baseline responses show, it appears your daughter has simply… chosen to remain nine.” … “I’m sorry, Doctor. I don’t think I understand what you’re implying.” Dad looked utterly bewildered. Beside him, Mom looked like she had just been slapped. The specialist shifted his gaze to the corner of the room, where I sat cross-legged on the linoleum, humming tunelessly as I stacked colored wooden blocks into a crooked tower. Then he tapped the manila folder on his desk. “The neurological panels are entirely clean. June suffered a moderate concussion from the vehicle impact, yes, but no localized trauma that would justify amnesia or age regression. As to why she has chosen to stay nine… that isn’t a neurological defect. That is psychiatric.” Something flickered behind Mom’s eyes, and in a single second, all the color drained from her skin. Her fingers clawed violently into Dad’s coat sleeve. “Is she doing this to punish us?” she whispered, her voice paper-thin and reeking of panic. “Thomas, is she? Is it because of what happened before—” “Laura, shut up,” Dad snapped under his breath, darting a furtive look at the doctor before clamping his palm directly over Mom’s mouth. “That’s enough.” He turned back to the specialist, forcing a stiff, paper-dry smile. “In that case, we won’t take up any more of your valuable time. Thank you, Doctor.” Dad grabbed Mom with one hand and yanked me up by the wrist with the other, half-dragging my spindly frame down the sterile corridor as if the building were on fire. Once we were buckled into the SUV, I carefully pulled a wet wipe from my little pocket, humming as I cleaned my fingers. “Daddy, Mommy,” I chirped, swinging my patent-leather shoes against the seat. “June was so good for the nice doctor. Do I get strawberry cake tonight? You promised! You said if I was brave, there’d be a reward!” In the front passenger seat, Mom angled her head back. Her eyes were hollowed out, dark with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. Suspicion, maybe. Or resentment. It made my chest feel tight and prickly. Since the crash, they had catered to my every whim. Whenever they looked at me, their eyes were soft with guilt and tenderness, brimmed with tears of desperate affection. They had never looked at me like this. Cold. Distant. Silent. A nameless dread began to balloon inside my ribcage. Without realizing it, my small fingers twisted tightly into the hem of my cotton dress. When Dad cut the engine in our driveway, I lifted both arms toward Mom like I always did, waiting for her to unbuckle me and lift me down into her chest. This time, my arms met only empty air. Mom stepped out, crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and stood on the driveway gravel, staring at me through the open door. “Is this fun for you, June?” she asked. My breath hitched. My arms stayed frozen in midair. “Tell me,” she said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp register. “Do you enjoy watching your father and me run ourselves ragged, begging every doctor in the state for help? Is it fun seeing this whole family lose sleep, crying ourselves sick over you?” “Laura—” Dad started. “No, Thomas! I want to know!” Mom took a step closer, her eyes flashing with a terrible, wounded fury. “Do you like tricking us? Making fools out of us? Is it fun?” Mom was using big, angry words. I was only nine. I didn’t understand. So I pushed a tremulous, sunny smile onto my lips and stretched my arms out farther, stubborn and pleading. “Mommy, hug me. Please hug.” Mom turned on her heel and walked away. Dad let out a ragged sigh, reached into the back, and hauled me out by my elbow. His grip was entirely devoid of warmth. “Enough, June,” he said flatly, rubbing his temples. “The game’s over. Your mother and I don’t have the energy to play pretend anymore.” I understood his words even less. What game? Who was playing pretend? I was their little girl. I was their favorite, their precious little angel. When we walked inside, Mom didn’t set out my fluffy pink bunny slippers by the entryway. Dad didn’t reach into his briefcase to pull out the little cellophane-wrapped strawberry candies he always saved for me. They simply sank onto opposite ends of the sectional sofa, looking hollowed out, their faces gray with exhaustion. I didn’t know what rule I had broken. Swallowing hard, I crept over to Mom and tugged gently at her sleeve, rocking her arm back and forth. “Mommy, June is sleepy. Will you read me the fairy tale book? Just the one about the swan princess?” It was the most innocent, everyday bedtime request. But it landed on Mom like an anvil. She snapped. She snatched my favorite illustrated storybook off the coffee table and ripped it in two. Then she shredded the glossy pages into jagged ribbons and hurled them straight into my face. “Stop it, June! Just stop!” she screamed, her voice cracking into high, shrill pieces. “You are eighteen years old! You are not a child! The doctor said there is nothing wrong with your brain, so why are you still doing this to us? Why won’t you just stop lying?!” Paper scraps drifted down around my shoulders, dusting my skirt like cold confetti. Beside her, Dad only stared down at the carpet, his jaw set in stone. He didn’t defend me. He didn’t say a single word. On the other side of the room, my younger sister, Gracie, sat curled in the armchair, licking a chocolate fudge popsicle. Her dark eyes gleamed over the wooden stick, tiny and cunning. A lump rose in my throat, hot and choking. I couldn’t comprehend why a few words from that doctor had made them stop loving me. I was the baby of the house. That was how it was supposed to be. Even Gracie wasn’t supposed to matter more than me. Through the buzzing in my ears, I heard Mom take a long, shuddering breath. “Tomorrow, we take her to a psychiatrist,” she muttered, not looking at me. “If she keeps this up… then I give up. Let her live in her own delusions.” … The next morning, they marched me into the office of a child psychologist, Dr. Foster. The room smelled of lavender and old paper. Dr. Foster reviewed my medical charts, took off her reading glasses, and looked across the desk at Mom. “Given how fragmented her emotional state is, I’d like to use a light hypnotherapy and associative questioning approach today,” Dr. Foster said gently. “Before we begin, though, I noticed in her history that your younger daughter was born right around June’s ninth birthday. Is it possible that the sudden shift in maternal attention—the unintentional neglect that often happens when a new infant arrives—triggered an attachment crisis?” “No! That’s not true!” I blurted out, jumping up before Mom could speak. My voice was shrill, desperate to correct her. “You have it all wrong, Dr. Foster! I’m the one Mommy and Daddy love most! Not Gracie! They love me more than anyone. They were going to buy me a huge strawberry shortcake for my birthday!” Dr. Foster tilted her head, her gaze swimming with a quiet, devastating empathy. “And did you get to have that birthday cake, June?” “After… after that…” Her voice acted like a brass key in a rusted lock. Something cracked open inside my head. I remembered. The birthday party never happened. It was my ninth birthday. Mom and Dad had promised to spend the entire evening with me. We were supposed to eat pizza on the living room floor and sing together. But at five o’clock, Gracie started throwing a screaming fit because she wanted the pink velvet dress she’d seen at the boutique downtown. Dad grabbed the car keys. Mom threw on her coat. “June, honey, just do your homework for a little while,” Mom had said, smoothing my bangs with distracted fingers. “We’ll be right back, and we’ll bring home the strawberry cake. We promise.” I had nodded dutifully, even reminding them to buckle their seatbelts. By eight o’clock, the house was pitch black except for the porch light. That was when our downstairs neighbor, Mr. Higgins, knocked on the door. He was holding a bakery box tied with a white satin ribbon. “Hey there, June-bug,” he smiled, stepping across the threshold. “Your folks got held up at the mall with the little one. Asked me to drop your cake off.” I had let him in because he was Dad’s fishing buddy. But Mr. Higgins didn’t leave. He sat on our sofa, patting the cushion beside him. “Eating birthday cake all by your lonesome is sad, isn’t it?” he said, his smile stretching too wide across his stubbled jaw. “How about Uncle Roy keeps you company while you blow out the candles? Your parents are something else, huh? All wrapped up in that baby sister of yours, leaving our pretty girl in the dark.” At the time, my small, stupid heart had felt a rush of gratitude. He was right. It was lonely. Ever since Gracie came along, my parents had looked straight through me. They celebrated her first steps, her first garbled words, her every fussy demand, while the phrase they handed me most was: “Be patient, June. Your sister is little. You have to let her have her way.” I had been little once, too. Why couldn’t I remember them holding me like that? Before I could answer, Mr. Higgins switched off the living room lamp. “Time for candles,” he murmured. Except he never lit a match. Instead, a pair of heavy, calloused hands settled on my small shoulders. The stench of stale Marlboro reds and sour beer washed over my face as he leaned in impossibly close. “How about Uncle Roy makes a wish for you, June?” A sudden, paralyzing panic surged down my spine, cold and greasy. Every hair on my arms stood on end. I scrambled blindly toward the wall, clawing for the light switch. “Mr. Higgins, please go home! I don’t want to make a wish! I don’t want the birthday anymore!” Before my fingertips touched the plastic plate, my wrists were caught. His rough palms pinned my arms behind my back, bending my small shoulders until the joints screamed. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get away. “Enough! June, what the hell are you saying?!” Dad’s roar shattered the memory. He surged out of his chair in Dr. Foster’s office, his face mottled purple, all his civilized manners stripped away in an instant. “Roy Higgins is a decent man! He dropped off that cake and walked straight back downstairs! You’re making this up—it’s sick! None of that ever happened!” My mouth snapped shut. My fingers dug so hard into my skirt that my knuckles turned paper-white. Right. Daddy was right. None of it happened. I was only nine years old. I was their most cherished treasure. They would never leave me alone in the dark. They would never let a monster into the house. Daddy was right. Daddy had to be right. Across the room, Dr. Foster’s face had gone rigid, her pen hovering motionless above her pad. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but it carried an authority that brooked no interruption. “June… is this the trauma? Is this why you retreated to nine years old? To keep this from being real?” I stared at her for a long, quiet minute. Then I let my mouth stretch into an empty, obedient grin. “No.” … I remembered what happened after, too. When Mom and Dad finally came home that night, I had collapsed on the hallway rug, sobbing so hard I vomited. At first, Mom had been furious. She had marched down the stairs and dragged Mr. Higgins up to our living room to confront him. Mr. Higgins put his hands up, looking hurt and profoundly bewildered. “Thomas, Laura, come on,” he had said, shaking his head. “I was just doing you a favor. Why would I touch your kid? I’ve got a wife, I’ve got kids of my own. We’ve been neighbors for six years. You know who I am.” Dad, who couldn’t bear the thought of suburban scandal, fell dead silent. I kept weeping, hyperventilating on the floorboards, choking on my own bile. Mom couldn’t take the sound anymore. She snatched her phone off the counter, her thumb hovering over 9-1-1. Just as the screen lit up, Gracie poked her head out from behind the hallway door. She was clutching her brand-new pink velvet dress, her round, angelic face scrubbed clean of all deceit. “Mommy, Daddy,” Gracie piped up, her voice sweet as honey. “I can tell the truth. June asked Mr. Higgins to come up. When we were walking to the car, I heard her whisper to him to bring the cake up later.” The air was sucked out of the room. My blood ran so cold it felt like ice water in my veins. Gracie looked so innocent, so tiny. But every syllable coming out of her mouth was a serrated blade slicing straight into my neck. Dad latched onto her words like a life raft. “See? That explains it!” Dad exhaled, visibly relieved. “Gracie’s nine. A child that age doesn’t know how to lie. June, this is ridiculous. You threw a tantrum because your birthday was interrupted, and now you’re trying to ruin a neighbor’s life? Apologize to Roy right now. Thank him for the cake, and tell him you’re sorry.” “Thank him? Apologize to him?” The tears spilled over my cheeks in hot, endless ribbons, a suffocating knot lodged in my throat. But Gracie was the little one. Children don’t lie. With her testimony anchoring the room, my reality evaporated. Nobody believed me. I dragged myself into my bedroom and clicked the lock. Just before the door swung shut, I saw Gracie glance back over her shoulder. She gave me a tiny, knowing wink, then wrapped her little arms around Mom’s waist on one side and Dad’s leg on the other. “Mommy, Daddy,” she cooed, “I wish you were just “my” mommy and daddy forever.” From that night on, I never left that room. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I stopped going to school. In the beginning, they knocked. “June, the misunderstanding is over. Stop being dramatic.” “It’s just teenage hormones, Laura. Give her space. She’ll get over it.” Weeks bled into months, and their patience soured into resentment. They stopped trying to talk to me. They just slid dinner plates onto the carpet outside my door three times a day. Until one Tuesday afternoon, when Mom knocked three times and heard nothing. She snapped. She hurled the ceramic bowl against my bedroom door, letting it shatter into a dozen flying shards across the hallway. “June! When does this end?!” she screamed through the wood. “Your father and I work forty hours a week and take care of your sister, and we are sick of walking on eggshells! Why can’t you just grow up?!” I cracked the door open and looked at her. In her blind rage, Mom didn’t notice my sunken, hollow cheeks. She didn’t see the jagged, angry red lines carved into my forearms. Before she could say another word, Gracie padded down the hall and slipped her warm, chubby hand into Mom’s trembling fingers. “Mommy, June is bad,” Gracie whispered softly. “I’m only nine, but I’ll always be good for you. I promise.” Mom took the lifeline. She turned away from me, exhaled a trembling breath, and led Gracie toward the kitchen. … In the psychiatrist’s office, my voice trailed off. Dr. Foster’s pen was flying across her yellow legal pad now, her eyes wide with mounting alarm. “June… if you never left your room, how did the car accident happen?” Ah. That. I knew that answer, too. “Don’t you dare say it—” Mom warned, her voice cracking in panic. But I looked Dr. Foster right in the eye, my voice crisp, clean, and entirely detached. “Mom shoved me out the front door. She told me to stop sulking around the house like a corpse. She said if I wanted to die so badly, I should go throw myself in front of traffic and spare her the sight of my face.” “We’re leaving!” Mom shrieked, lunging forward and grabbing my arm so hard her nails bit through my cotton sleeve. “Wait! You cannot take her out of here!” Dr. Foster shouted, chasing us into the waiting room. “She is in an active dissociative break! If you pull her out now, the therapy will collapse entirely!” They didn’t listen. Dad shoved me into the back of the car and slammed the door. A strange thing happened then. All those jagged, razor-sharp memories that had just clawed their way to the surface? They vanished. Like smoke slipping through a keyhole. The gray film settled over my eyes again. I was just a little girl. Sweet, innocent, nine years old. When we pulled into the driveway, Dad turned around, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. “June, let it go. You heard the specialists. Your brain is fine. Stop the act.” I blinked at him, clutching my knees. What act? Did he not like the hide-and-seek game we played last week? I hopped out of the car, reaching for their hands, but they both recoiled as if my skin were dipped in poison. Once inside, Mom marched into my bedroom and swept all my stuffed animals into black contractor bags, dragging them to the basement. Dad took a scraper to my bedroom door, peeling away every single cartoon sticker I had lovingly pressed into the wood, scraping until the paint came off in raw, ugly ribbons. I watched them from the hallway, terror knotting in my stomach. Why were they being so cruel? When I first woke up after that crash months ago, they had loved me so fiercely. They had slept on the vinyl hospital chairs, holding my hands, crying tears of profound relief. They had even skipped Gracie’s end-of-year ballet recital just to sit by my bedside. Gracie had thrown an earth-shattering tantrum in the pediatric ward: “Why do you only care about June?! I’m supposed to be your favorite!” And Mom had snapped right back: “Shut up about your stupid recital, Gracie! Nothing matters until your sister wakes up!” Later, when the doctors told them my mind had retreated to nine years old, they had wept, but they had embraced it. Mom had lined my bed with plushies. Dad had scaled back his overtime just to read me bedtime stories every night. They had even sold our old house and moved across town to give me a fresh start. They had loved me so much. And I had been so, so good. Why couldn’t we just stay there? Tears pooled in my eyes. I crept forward and tugged on Mom’s cardigan. “Mommy, Daddy, why are you mad at June? I don’t understand. I’m only nine. I’m your good girl, right?” “Shut up!” Dad exploded. He ripped the medical evaluation from his coat pocket and slapped the sheaf of papers right across my cheek. “Can you read, June?! It says right here you are completely normal! You’ve been playing us! Mocking us! All this baby talk, this memory loss bullshit—it was all just an elaborate lie to get back at us!” Down on the sofa, Gracie was nestled in the crook of Mom’s arm, being spoon-fed fresh peaches. Over Mom’s shoulder, she caught my eye and stuck out her tongue, her little face glowing with victory. “Daddy, I’m not lying,” I whimpered, clutching my cheek. “I really am nine. Even the doctor lady today said—” “June, stop humiliating yourself,” Mom cut in, her voice flat, devoid of a single drop of warmth. “Can’t you show a shred of decency? Just once?” Without another word, Dad grabbed his car keys. “Come on, Laura. Let’s take Gracie to the steakhouse down the street. Leave her here.” The heavy oak front door clicked shut. The deadbolt slid into place. I stood in the center of the quiet, cavernous house for a long, long time. Slowly, I walked to the kitchen trash can. Buried beneath the vegetable peelings and coffee grounds was my little stuffed rabbit, its white plush fur smeared with brown gunk. I pulled it out, clutching it to my chest. I really, truly didn’t understand what they wanted from me. Why did they stop loving me? Why did they take away the softness? After the first accident, they had looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world. “The accident.” A spark ignited behind my ribs, sharp and blindingly bright. Of course. They loved me when I was broken. They loved me when my head hit the asphalt and my body was wrapped in white gauze. If I got hit again—if a car smashed into me just hard enough to crack my skull—would they look at me with tears in their eyes again? Would they stroke my hair and promise to give me anything I wanted? Yes. That was it. That had to be it. Giggling through my tears, a strange, manic heat rising in my cheeks, I unlocked the deadbolt and bounded out into the afternoon light, my filthy bunny clutched tight in my arms. “Don’t worry, bunny,” I whispered, breaking into a sprint toward the busy boulevard four blocks away. “Mommy and Daddy are going to love us again. You’re happy for me, aren’t you?” At the intersection of 4th and Elm, the traffic was a roaring river of chrome and steel. I didn’t wait for the walk signal. I took a breath, stepped off the curb, and threw myself directly into the path of an oncoming truck.
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