When my family found out that my severe clinical depression was caused by years of emotional neglect, they were suddenly consumed by overwhelming guilt. My father ordered my older sister, Whitney, to pack up her stuff and hand over her spacious, sunlit bedroom to me. My mother grabbed the brand-new designer clothes she’d just bought for Whitney and forced them into my hands. Even my younger brother, Toby—who had spent years treating me with open coldness—baked a birthday cake from scratch with his own hands. He held it out to me with wide, expectant eyes, wishing me a speedy recovery. Never mind that they had gotten my birthday completely wrong. Wanting so desperately not to disappoint them or waste their sudden effort, I forced myself to smile. And in the very next second, Toby smashed the cake directly into my face. “I told you she was faking!” he sneered. “If she were actually depressed, how could she smile so easily?” Whitney burst through the doorway, her eyes rimmed red with theatrical tears: “Sadie, if you wanted attention, you could have just asked for it! Why fake an illness and drive Mom and Dad crazy with worry?” I caught the sudden shift in my parents’ faces—the guilt vanishing, replaced instantly by cold, familiar disgust. Panicked, I opened my mouth to explain. But sticky, cloying frosting filled my throat, choking back every word. I could only watch with wide, helpless eyes as they dragged my threadbare blanket out of the bright room and shoved it back into the cramped closet-bedroom under the stairs. As Mom snatched the new clothes off my lap and handed them right back to Whitney. Slowly, my vision blurred. Only my parents’ sharp, venomous words echoed clearly through the quiet apartment: “Faking depression at your age just to compete with your sister for attention—are you trying to put us in an early grave?” “If I knew you’d turn out to be this manipulative, I would have smothered you the day you were born!” So, I swallowed the bitter, cloying cake. And I made the very first real wish of my life. “May Mom and Dad finally be happy after I die.” … My parents’ sharp insults completely drowned out my whisper-thin wish. “Ungrateful little brat! Your father and I are sick with rage, and you have the nerve to sit there eating cake?” A heavy slap landed across my cheek. I opened my eyes sluggishly, meeting my mother’s gaze, which burned with pure resentment. “Did we starve you? Did we withhold clothes? You staged this whole illness just to scare us?” “If you’re going to fake being suicidal, why don’t you have the decency to pull it off and die?” A dull, sharp pain stabbed through my long-numb heart. I stared at my mother, remembering how just minutes ago, she had cupped my face with tender hands and whispered: “Sadie-girl, as long as you get better, I’ll give you anything you want. Even if you asked for my own life, I’d give it to you.” It had felt like a dream. Now, the dream was over. She was back to her true self, glaring down at me with utter revulsion. “What, caught red-handed so now you’re playing mute?” Dad rubbed his temples, letting out a long, irritated sigh. “Your mother and I took over a month off work to cater to your ‘illness.’ Do you have any idea how much money we lost?” “We have three kids to raise! Money is tight enough as it is. Can’t you just be sensible for once instead of pulling these dramatic stunts?” I had heard variations of those exact words countless times before my diagnosis. When buying new clothes, they said: “There are three of you, Sadie. Be sensible and wear Whitney’s hand-me-downs.” When assigning bedrooms: “Be sensible, give the bigger rooms to your sister and brother, and take the small box room.” When planning family trips: “Be sensible, we can’t afford everyone. Stay home.” Every single time back then, I used to cry and fight back. “Whitney is older, Toby is stronger—why am I the only one who always has to be “sensible”?” After the depression took hold, I lost the strength to fight. And ironically, once I stopped fighting, they stopped demanding I be sensible. Instead, they kept swearing: “Sadie, as long as you stay healthy and alive, even if you tear down the sky, Mom and Dad will hold it up for you.” Seeing me sit motionless on the floor, Mom swung her hand again, landing another hard slap on my face. “Say something! What are you so unsatisfied with?!” My ears buzzed from the impact. Oddly, though, my face didn’t hurt. Neither did my heart. It only solidified the quiet truth in my mind: “Mom and Dad will only be happy if I’m dead.” So I shook my head softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll be sensible from now on.” Even if “sensible” meant quietly dying. That single sentence consumed every last drop of air in my lungs. Seeing me slump amidst the ruined cake and smeared cream, Toby curled his lip in contempt. “Tch. Look at her, acting fragile again.” I looked up at his cruel, adolescent face. Unbidden, memories from the past month flooded my mind. Because of severe somatization, my body would give out without warning, leaving me tumbling to the hard floor. Whenever he saw my skin covered in purple bruises, Toby’s eyes used to turn red with tears. He had become my shadow, trailing behind me everywhere. He would reach out to catch my hand right before I hit the ground. And if he couldn’t catch me, he’d throw himself underneath me to act as a human cushion. And now? Here I sat on top of the ruined cake he had baked, slathered in whipped cream, looking pathetically broken. He didn’t reach out to lift me up. Instead, he hurled a heavy, leather-bound notebook straight at my face. The sharp corner sliced across my cheekbone, drawing a thin line of red. He didn’t even flinch. He just sneered, “If Whitney hadn’t found your secret diary and showed it to us, we’d still be fooled by your little act!” With trembling hands, I picked up the journal and opened it. The handwriting was intimately familiar, but the words written inside were terrifyingly foreign. [June 1, 2026: Mom, Dad, and Toby went to that concert with Whitney and left me behind again. I hate her. Why can’t Whitney just die? What do I have to do to make them love me instead?] [June 7, 2026: Symptoms of severe depressive somatization: loss of speech, vacant eyes, rapid hair loss, total exhaustion, loss of taste… God, please help me act convincing enough!] [June 11, 2026: The whole family took me to the doctor today. When the doctor said I had clinical depression, Mom and Dad cried. Toby even bought me cotton candy—it tasted so sweet. I really am a genius!] I flipped through the pages, a cold wave of panic rising in my chest. The physical symptoms described on the page were exactly what I had suffered through. But I had “never” written this diary. My hands shook violently, and the journal slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. Desperate, I blurted out, “Mom, this wasn’t me—” “Sadie!” Whitney stepped forward, grabbing my wrist and cutting me off, her voice laced with sorrowful restraint. “I know you’re jealous because Mom and Dad love me, and I know how badly you wanted their attention. But you shouldn’t have resorted to this!” “Lies will only push the people who love you further away.” As she spoke, a tiny flash of triumphant malice glinted in her tear-stained eyes. In an instant, a memory slammed into me. Years ago, when I was first brought back from my grandparents’ house, I wanted so desperately to make Whitney like me. I used to offer to do her homework by copying her handwriting. Over time, my handwriting became a mirror image of hers. I turned my head and stared directly at Whitney. Before I could demand an explanation, she gasped, tears spilling over her lashes. “Sadie, why are you glaring at me like that? Don’t tell me you’re going to accuse “me” of writing that diary?” She looked like the ultimate picture of injured innocence. “You envy me so much? Fine! I’ll give you all of Mom and Dad’s love! I’ll give you Toby’s love too! But we’re sisters—how could you think I’m so evil?” I stared into her eyes, seeing the hidden cruelty dancing beneath the tears. “Is she not evil?” The year I was brought back to this house, my parents saw how thin and frail I was after living with my grandparents in the countryside. I was so terrified of taking up space that I barely dared to reach for food at the dinner table. Back then, Mom and Dad had cried, holding me tight, promising they would make up for all those lost years. Even Toby, who was younger then, had placed the best drumstick into my bowl, promising he’d protect his big sister. But that warmth didn’t last. When Whitney returned home from boarding school and found me living in her house, she threw a massive, screaming tantrum. When screaming didn’t work, she turned to quiet poison. She started whispering to Mom and Dad that she saw me overwatering Mom’s precious indoor plants until they rotted, that she saw me ripping up Dad’s work documents, that she saw me smashing Toby’s limited-edition action figures. Every time I tried to explain that it wasn’t me, Whitney would tear up and say gently: “Forget it, Mom. Sadie is young, and if she made a mistake, it’s my fault for not guiding her. Let me take the blame.” Repetitive drops of water hollow out stone. Over time, Mom, Dad, and Toby began to believe her. They decided I was uncultured, sneaky, and raised improperly by my grandparents. They grew to resent me. Their standards for me became impossible, their coldness absolute. And like those indoor plants Whitney secretly killed, I slowly withered away inside, until I became the ghost standing here today. Seeing me frozen, Mom roared at me in rage. “Sadie, are you done yet?!” “Faking an illness wasn’t enough? Now you’re trying to frame your sister?!” Dad shook his head, looking at me with pure, gut-wrenching disappointment. “If I had known you’d grow up to be this calculating and wretched, your mother and I never would have brought you into this world.” Their cold, murderous disgust pooled around me like ice water. I wanted to speak. I wanted to defend myself. But my mouth felt glued shut. I couldn’t utter a single sound. I could only sit there, paralyzed, as they listed every grievance they held against my existence. Mom said I was born a curse—that the hospital bills and administrative fines from my birth had wiped out their savings. Dad said ever since I returned to this house, there hadn’t been a single day of peace. Toby blamed me for my fake depression, claiming that catering to me had ruined his focus and ruined his high school entrance exam scores. Finally, the three of them looked at me with shared, terrible hatred. “Sadie… you really are the most useless, extra thing in this family.” With those words, they turned away. No one looked at me again. Under Whitney’s gentle coaxing, they went about their business. I sat motionless on the floor until the cream on my skin dried into a sticky, suffocating film. When dinner was ready, Mom called out in a voice like stone: “Clean yourself up and get over here to eat. Or are you expecting me to wait on you hand and foot?” I snapped out of my daze, scrambling awkwardly. “I’ll clean up right now. You guys go ahead and eat… I’m not hungry…” Ever since the depression had taken hold, my appetite had completely evaporated. Before today, every mealtime would feature Mom cooking a table full of my favorite dishes, sitting beside me, softly spoon-feeding me bite by bite. Now, hearing me say I wasn’t hungry, Mom slammed her fork onto the table. “Sadie! Everyone in this house knows you’ve been faking! How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act?!” Seeing the sharp rage in her eyes, I didn’t dare utter another word. I practically crawled to the table, sat down, and began shoveling dry rice into my mouth with frantic, desperate bites. “Mom, don’t be mad. See? I’m eating. I’m eating…” The dry rice burned my dry throat like sand, and my stomach heaved violently in protest. Yet my compliance only infuriated Mom further. As if she couldn’t take it for another second, she snatched my bowl away and slammed it down. “If you don’t want to eat, then get out of my sight!” I stared at her blankly, my hand hovering in midair, torn over whether I should keep eating. Suddenly, Dad’s phone alarm chimed. I recognized the chime immediately—it was the daily reminder set for my evening medication. Instinctively, I walked over to the side table and reached for the pill bottle. Before my fingers could unscrew the cap, Dad struck my hand down with a loud, ringing smack. “Why are you taking medication if you’re not sick?!” “You leech! A single bottle of this stuff costs over two hundred dollars. I’m going to see if the pharmacy will take it back.” The bottle rolled across the floor, and Dad scooped it up, turning his back on me. I watched his silhouette, quietly praying that the pharmacy would accept the return. Maybe then, he’d be a little less angry. Dinner ended in miserable silence. When Dad sat down on the living room sofa to watch TV, my body moved on pure habit. Over the past month, on the doctor’s recommendation, Dad would sit beside me every night and watch warm, uplifting family movies with me. I walked over and sat down on the far cushion next to him. The moment I sat, the terrifying roar of a chainsaw shrieked from the speakers. Dad was watching a violent horror movie. Seeing me shiver uncontrollably, my face draining of all color, Dad scowled with immense irritation. “If you don’t want to watch, get the hell out.” I swallowed hard, pulled myself up, and dragged my feet back toward my tiny box room under the stairs. No food. No medicine. My stomach wasn’t hungry, but my brain was alive with a terrifying, chaotic nightmare of memories. Flash: I was six years old. Mom and Dad had dropped me off at my grandparents’ house in the countryside so they could prepare for Toby’s birth. I remembered sprinting down the dirt road behind their receding car, screaming until my lungs bled. Flash: I was twelve, on a freezing winter night. Whitney accused me of stealing money from Mom’s purse. Mom threw me out into the snow, shutting out my frantic, weeping explanations. Flash: I was eighteen, during Christmas break. We were driving for a family vacation, and because I misspoke during an argument, Dad pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway and left me behind in the cold. During the dark days of my depression, whenever these memories surfaced, I would break down, screaming in terror. And every time, Mom and Dad would hold me close, whispering gently: “Sadie, don’t think about it. That’s all in the past. We’re going to treat you right from now on. We promise.” But tonight… when I couldn’t stop the quiet sob from escaping my throat, the only response was Dad viciously kicking my bedroom door from the hallway. “Sadie! Shut the hell up! Crying, crying, crying—you’re wailing like someone died! You’re sucking all the peace out of this home!” Through the thin door, I heard Mom’s cold, dismissive voice: “Ignore her. Let’s all go out for a walk. She’ll stop her little show once she realizes no one’s listening.” Footsteps receded. The heavy front door clicked shut. Silence descended on the house. Yet inside my head, the noise grew deafeningly loud. “Sadie, why don’t you just die?” “Sadie, you’re extra. You were never meant to be here.” “Sadie, you liar. A fake. Mom and Dad will never love you… unless you prove you were really broken.” My exhausted, shattered body suddenly found a surge of terrifying strength. In a daze, I crawled toward the small window in my room. Looking through the dusty glass, I saw them. Mom and Dad were holding Whitney and Toby’s hands, all four of them walking side by side under the streetlights, laughing and talking as they walked into the distance. “Look at that,” I thought softly. “Without me, they really are happy.” I didn’t hesitate anymore. I pushed the window open, spread my arms into the cool night air, and stepped out into the dark. The moment my body slammed against the concrete below, I caught a brief, fleeting glimpse of my father turning his head back in the distance, his eyes wide with sudden, unimaginable horror.
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