1 The day I returned to the family estate, my three brothers added me to a group chat named The Family. They promised that if I ever ran into trouble, I could post there and they would handle it. Though it stayed silent for months, I treasured it, believing I was finally loved after years in the orphanage. Later, I traveled for the National STEM Fellowship Selection. The night before, my stomach ruptured and I was rushed in with acute gastric perforation. Surgery required a guardian’s signature. I called Gary, the eldest, but he did not pick up. Garrett, the second, declined and texted that he was helping Giselle pick her birthday gown. Gabe, the youngest, answered, but Giselle was giggling for him to cut her cake. He muttered he would talk later and hung up. Curled on the gurney in agony, I sent my first plea to the group chat. Silence followed. With no one to sign, I nearly died on the table. The delay cost my health and the competition that would have rewritten my future. Discharged, I returned to the quiet mansion. Giselle waved her phone, showing a video the boys had posted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, she gasped, I forgot you are not in that group chat. I froze in the doorway. Gary cleared his throat, saying that group was mostly dead so they had muted it. The truth was clear. They had another chat that buzzed warmly without me. I said nothing, calmly pulled out my phone, opened their appeasement chat, and pressed Leave Group. Gary’s stiff laugh died in his throat. “Nick, seriously, that chat was always quiet. We just muted it by habit.” He pulled out his phone, quickly tapping into the dead chat to prove his point. Only a single message occupied the screen. “Guys, I’m in the ER. My stomach ruptured, and I need emergency surgery. They need a guardian to sign off. Please, can someone come?” The timestamp showed it was sent ten days ago. Gary’s expression shifted, a flicker of unease crossing his features. Garrett leaned over to glance at the screen, his brow furrowing slightly. “Was it really that serious?” “I had the surgery,” I replied quietly. “I survived.” “You’re fine now, right?” Gabe asked, looking up from his tablet. “Yes, I’m fine.” “Well, that’s a relief.” Gary tucked his phone back into his pocket, letting out a breath. “If you’re fine, why make such a big deal out of it? You should have called us directly.” I looked at him but chose not to answer. I had called. They simply had not cared enough to listen. Garrett seemed to recall something and casually asked, “By the way, what about that national fellowship? Did you qualify?” “I didn’t make it. The surgery happened the night before the exam. I was in the ICU.” The living room fell into a brief, awkward silence. Gabe was the first to shrug it off, tossing a hand over my shoulder. “It’s fine. Honestly, those national selections are incredibly brutal anyway. Even if you went, there was no guarantee you’d pass.” Gary nodded in agreement. “Those fellowships are meant for the absolute top prodigies. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself.” “Exactly,” Garrett chimed in. “You’re not like Giselle, who has been winning trophies left and right since she was a little girl. You don’t need to force yourself to compete at that level.” Gabe offered a lazy smile. “If worst comes to worst, we can always find some private college to take you in. It’s not like our family can’t afford to pay your tuition.” With a few casual, dismissive remarks, they swept away months of my sleepless nights and grueling study sessions. But they had no idea. Only thirty-two students in the entire country had qualified for that fellowship selection. I was one of them. During my junior year, I had won a national silver medal in mathematics and placed first in the state physics league. I had maintained the top rank in my class for six consecutive semesters. Meanwhile, Giselle did not even have the basic credentials to submit an application. Her so-called trophies were merely local youth piano recitals and school-level spelling bees. Yet, in my brothers’ eyes, Giselle was a brilliant, fragile princess. I was merely a dull, plodding bookworm who knew how to do nothing but memorize texts. Gary patted my head lightly. “Alright, lose the gloomy face. We’ll have Dad pull a few strings later on. Maybe we can send you to study abroad.” “Our Nick is always the good girl,” Garrett said with a grin. “She doesn’t let these little things get to her.” An overwhelming sense of exhaustion washed over me. They did not care about my pain; they merely used moral blackmail to praise me for being quiet. Giselle bounded over, wrapping her arms around Gary’s elbow. “Gary, you promised you’d help me choose the makeup look for my gala today!” With a gentle tug, Gary’s attention shifted entirely to her. “Right, right. Let’s go take a look.” Garrett handed a sleek designer bag to Giselle. “Here. The diamond bracelet you wanted. Took me forever to track down this specific edition.” “Oh, my gosh, Garrett, you are literally the best!” Gabe ruffled her styled hair. “Hey, what about me? I bought you that custom pendant, and I don’t get any praise?” The living room instantly filled with laughter and warmth once more. I stood by the entryway. On the shoe rack, four pairs of house slippers were neatly aligned. Gary’s black pair, Garrett’s dark blue, Gabe’s gray, and Giselle’s soft pink. There was no fifth pair. I bent down, slipped into my outdoor shoes, and quietly retreated to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. The surgical incision in my abdomen began to throb, and a faint crimson stain bloomed through the edge of the fresh gauze. My phone screen flickered. Gabe had sent a message to “The Family” group chat. “Let’s use this chat to coordinate from now on, guys.” Nobody replied. The chat sank back into the silence of a tomb. “Nick, are you awake? Perfect. Take Giselle to the skin clinic.” At seven-thirty the next morning, Garrett stood outside my door, tapping his watch. “She wants to get a quick laser facial before her gala. I booked her a ten o’clock slot, but a sudden meeting came up.” “My stitches aren’t even—” “You just need to sit in the waiting room with her,” he interrupted, his tone breezy. “It’s not like you have to do any heavy lifting.” He made it sound like a simple, effortless errand. By the time I threw on a jacket and walked downstairs, Giselle was already sitting in the back of the family SUV, applying lip gloss in the vanity mirror. “Nick, do you mind sitting in the front? I have a bunch of stuff back here.” The entire backseat was piled high with luxury shopping bags, all bearing prominent designer logos. I climbed into the passenger seat. As the seatbelt pressed tightly against my fresh incision, a sharp, white-hot pain shot through my core, forcing me to gasp for air. The driver started the engine. Giselle kept her head down, scrolling through her phone, occasionally letting out a soft giggle. “Gabe booked the entire riverfront venue for my gala,” she said, leaning forward to flash her screen in my face. “It’s insanely expensive.” I caught a glimpse of her open chat. The group name was “Giselle’s Fan Club.” The profile pictures of my three brothers were all active, and the messages were flying in. Gary had uploaded a digital rendering of the venue setup, adding a note: “Pink and gold themes for our princess.” Garrett had followed up with a string of thumbs-up emojis. Gabe had sent a voice note. When she tapped it, his warm, laughing voice filled the car: “I put together a video of your childhood photos to play on the main screen.” Noticing my quiet gaze, Giselle locked her phone with a swift slide of her thumb. “Nick, how are you planning to celebrate your eighteenth?” “I turned eighteen last month,” I said softly. “Oh? Really? Why didn’t anyone say anything?” “There wasn’t much to say.” On the fifteenth of last month, my actual birthday, all three of my brothers had been home. Gary was locked in his study, conducting a global video conference. Garrett was in the home gym, lifting weights. Gabe was out on the terrace, busy repairing a drone for Giselle. I had quietly cooked a simple bowl of noodles for myself, dropped in a single egg, and posted a rare update on my personal feed: “Eighteen today.” Two hours later, I had received a dozen likes from classmates, but not a single reaction from anyone in the house. Later that evening, Giselle had bounced into the living room carrying a slightly burnt cake. “Guys! I tried baking! Come taste it!” Within seconds, all three of them had swarmed her. Gary took a bite, teasing that it was too sweet, but happily took another. Garrett recorded a video to post online. Gabe simply carried half the tray to his room for a midnight snack. No one remembered my birthday. The cake was just a toy Giselle had made on a whim. But her whimsical creation was infinitely more important than my existence. At the clinic, while Giselle was taken back for her treatment, I sat rigidly on the plush waiting room sofa. The pain in my abdomen pulsed in steady, sharp waves. Because of the stitches, I couldn’t bend forward to ease the tension, so I had to remain completely upright, sweating silently. My phone vibrated. A message from Gary. “Is Giselle done? Take her out for that hotpot place she’s been craving afterward.” I stared at the screen, then typed a single word: “Okay.” I scrolled through my chat history with Gary. For the past three months, every single message from him had been an instruction regarding Giselle. “Pick up Giselle’s packages.” “Accompany Giselle to the music store.” “Pay Giselle’s dance academy fees.” My role in this household was not that of a sister. I was merely Giselle’s unpaid, live-in assistant. At the restaurant, Giselle ordered a table full of dishes, requesting the spiciest Szechuan red broth. I sat across from her with a bowl of plain white rice and a small side plate of unseasoned, boiled lettuce. “Why aren’t you eating the meat?” Giselle asked, her mouth full of beef. “My stomach is still recovering. I can’t have anything spicy.” “Oh. You really should have mentioned that earlier. We could have ordered a split pot.” She casually tossed another piece of tripe into the bubbling red broth, her tone entirely unbothered. Gary had made the reservation knowing Giselle loved spicy food. But not a single person had remembered that I had just undergone major abdominal surgery, and that a single drop of chili oil could land me back in the hospital. I swallowed a few leaves of the bland lettuce, the pungent, spicy steam from her pot making my eyes water. My stomach began to ache with a dull, familiar burn. Across the table, Giselle took a selfie with the fiery pot, uploading it to “Giselle’s Fan Club” with the caption: “Gary’s recommendation is literally the best! My mouth is on fire!” Three seconds later, Gabe replied with a voice note: “Save some for me next time!” Garrett sent an emoji of a drooling face. I placed my chopsticks down, looking at the pale green lettuce leaves. My mind drifted back to the small, sterile dining hall of the orphanage. The sweet kitchen lady, knowing I had a fragile stomach, would always quietly set aside a warm, plain bowl of rice porridge for me whenever the main menu was too heavy. A stranger at a charity home had remembered my health. My biological brothers did not even know the basics. On the tenth day after my surgery, I went to the clinic alone to have my stitches removed. As I stepped out of the clinic doors, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an email from my high school counselor, Mr. Abernathy. “Nick, the early admission track for Kingsley University is still accepting applications. Your competition record and academic ranking are well above their threshold. Would you like to submit your file?” I stood on the bustling sidewalk, staring at the screen for a long time. My path through the national selection had been cut short. But there was always another way out. I typed back: “Thank you, Mr. Abernathy. I want to apply.” His reply came almost instantly: “Excellent. I’ve already compiled most of your academic transcripts. Come to my office tomorrow and we’ll finalize the details. We have until Wednesday. We can do this.” In this vast world, someone was actively trying to help me find a future. It just wasn’t my family. When I returned to the estate, the entrance was cluttered with dozens of shoes, and the sound of music and laughter spilled out of the open doors. It was Giselle’s pre-gala warm-up party. Gary was on the terrace setting up a high-end grill, Garrett was adjusting the surround-sound speakers, and Gabe was running up and down the stairs with a massive bundle of pastel balloons. Giselle wore a beautiful white designer dress, her hair curled into soft waves, looking like the absolute center of the universe. “Gabe, that balloon is crooked! Move it to the left!” “Your wish is my command, your highness,” Gabe teased, quickly adjusting the string. I tried to slip past the crowd toward my room, but Gary caught sight of me from the terrace doors. “Nick, perfect timing. Go help prep the fruit platters in the kitchen. The catering staff is slammed.” I looked at him. He was wearing a custom apron, his face flushed from the heat of the grill, his eyes bright with excitement. “I just got back from the hospital—” “It’s just a bit of slicing and plating,” he cut in, already turning back to the grill. “You can do it standing up.” I walked into the kitchen. The counters were piled with crates of fresh watermelons, mangoes, and strawberries, all of Giselle’s favorites. I picked up the chef’s knife. As I brought it down on a watermelon, a sudden, sharp pull in my abdominal muscles made my hand tremor. The blade slipped, slicing deep into the pad of my index finger. A bead of dark red blood welled up. I stared at it for a few seconds. Then, I quietly wrapped a paper towel around it, squeezed the wound tight, and went back to slicing. At eight-thirty, the party reached its peak. My three brothers took turns giving toasts, offering touching speeches about how much their little sister had grown. Gary presented her with a classic Patek Philippe watch. Garrett gave her a rare, limited-edition skincare set. Gabe produced an elegant envelope containing round-trip first-class tickets to Paris. Giselle squealed with delight, throwing her arms around each of their necks in turn. No one noticed me sitting in the shadow of the kitchen archway, my bandaged finger tucked out of sight. No one remembered that a month ago, on my eighteenth birthday, I hadn’t received a single card, let alone a gift. I slipped back into my room and locked the door. Pulling out the checklist Mr. Abernathy had sent, I began compiling my application documents, scanning my certificates one by one. Outside my door, Giselle was singing a popular tune while my brothers cheered and clapped. I put on my noise-canceling headphones and focused on my laptop screen. When I finally finished, I checked my phone. There were no messages for me. In “The Family” group chat, Gary had posted a photo: “Amazing night, everyone! Giselle’s celebration was an absolute success!” Garrett replied: “Our sister deserves nothing but the absolute best.” Gabe shared a short video of Giselle blowing out her candles, captioning it: “Our princess is finally eighteen.” I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. It was fine. Just as I had written in the first line of my college personal statement: “I want to become someone who can walk a long, beautiful path, even if no one is watching.” Three weeks later. I received the official admission letter from Kingsley University. Along with it came a special invitation to join their elite Freshman Research Fellowship, a prestigious program that required me to report to campus early next month for a year of advanced study. I sat in the quiet corner of the school library, reading the letter three times over. I didn’t tell a soul. On my way home, I stopped by a local department store and purchased a simple, sturdy suitcase. It was just large enough to hold everything I actually owned. When I entered the house, Giselle was twirling around the foyer with her phone. “Gary! I want to sign up for that summer arts program in Florence!” “Go ahead and register. I’ll take care of the fees,” Gary replied, not even looking up from his laptop. I dragged my suitcase up the stairs. No one paid me any attention. In my room, I carefully folded my admission letter and the fellowship invitation, placing them at the very bottom of my new suitcase. I was going to step into my new life entirely on my own. The day I left, the clock read four-thirty in the morning. My room was at the very end of the long hallway, the smallest, darkest room in the house. When we had first moved in, Gary had told me, “This room faces north. It’s quiet, which is perfect for your studies.” Giselle’s room faced south, featuring a beautiful bay window and a private balcony, decorated with custom cherry-blossom pink drapes. My suitcase was light. There were very few things in this house that truly belonged to me. In the closet, there were two designer coats Gary’s assistant had purchased. The tags were still attached, and they were two sizes too large. They hadn’t been bought for me; he had simply ordered a bulk shipment for Giselle, and these were the leftovers. On the desk lay a small, faded sticky note Gabe had given me on my very first day in this house. It read: “Call me if you need anything.” I picked it up, flipped it over, and wrote a single line on the blank side: “I did call. No one answered. I won’t be needing anything anymore.” As I reached the front door, I placed my house keys in the small silver tray on the console table. Gary had handed them to me months ago, saying, “This is your home now. Keep these safe.” But this place had never been my home. The front door clicked shut behind me. I stood on the porch for a few seconds, listening to the absolute silence from within. It was just like the silence of their muted group chat. I wheeled my suitcase toward the elevator. The pre-dawn wind was cool, but it felt incredibly refreshing. It felt as though a heavy, suffocating weight had finally been lifted from my shoulders. My fellowship registration was in two days. A new city, a new campus, a place where no one knew my past, and no one would ever treat me like an unwanted assistant. The elevator doors slid open on the lobby level. The sky outside was still dark. Just me, my suitcase, and the beginning of my own life. Gary was the first to notice I was gone. He only noticed because there was no one to bring in Giselle’s morning deliveries. “Where is Nick? Tell her to go down and grab the mail.” Garrett stepped out of his room, brow furrowing. “Is she not in her room?” Gabe walked to the end of the hallway and pushed open the door to my room. The space was completely empty. The closet was bare. The desk was clear. The sheets on the bed were folded with military precision, looking exactly like a vacant hotel room. Only a single sticky note remained on the desk. Gabe reached out to pick it up. As his fingers touched the paper, he saw the neat handwriting on the back. Gary hurried to the entryway, his eyes landing on the silver tray. My keys lay there, catching the morning light. He picked them up, his fingers trembling slightly. “When… when did she leave?” No one had an answer. Because no one had been paying attention. Just like the desperate plea for help that had sat in their muted group chat, unnoticed for days. When I had arrived at this house, no one had truly welcomed me. And when I left, no one had even noticed. Gary frantically opened his phone, clicking into “The Family” group chat. A small system notification stared back at him: “Nick has left the conversation.” Gabe’s phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor. Standing in the center of the cold, empty bedroom, a memory suddenly flashed in his mind. He remembered the missed call from the hospital ten days ago. After he had declined it, he had gone to help Giselle blow out her candles, taken photos, and posted them online. During all that time, he had never once thought to call her back. Garrett leaned against the doorframe, the color draining from his face. He remembered his own text message: “Helping Giselle pick out her eighteenth birthday gala dress. Later.” Later. A “later” that had almost cost his sister her life. Gary gripped the keys, his knuckles turning white. He turned back to look at the elegant foyer. On the shoe rack, four pairs of slippers were neatly aligned. None of them were mine.
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