When my mother told me to die on my little brother’s birthday, I never imagined she would spend the rest of her life wishing she could take those words back.
Chapter 1
I was eight years old, and I had already outlived every prediction my doctors had made. My mother used to call me her little miracle. But that morning, when I needed her most, she looked at me as though I were the one thing standing between her and happiness.
I was born with a severe blood-clotting disorder. Even a small injury could become dangerous, and ordinary childhood activities were often too risky for me. When I was a baby, the doctors warned my parents that I might not survive to see my fifth birthday.
Mom refused to accept that. She prayed beside my hospital bed, slept in uncomfortable chairs, and begged God to give her more years with me. Dad worked overtime at a warehouse outside Columbus, Ohio, and took every extra shift he could find to cover my treatments.
I remember my fifth birthday because everyone cried when I blew out the candles. Mom hugged me so tightly that I could barely breathe. She whispered, “God gave you back to us, Liam. I’m never letting anything happen to you.”
But promises are easier to make when you’re grateful than when you’re exhausted.
By the time I turned eight, my little brother, Noah, was almost five. He was healthy, energetic, and curious about everything. Unlike me, he could climb trees, ride bicycles, and run through the sprinklers without anyone shouting for him to be careful.
I loved watching him do those things. Sometimes I wished I could join him, but mostly I was happy that he didn’t have to live like I did. Noah never treated me like a sick kid. To him, I was simply his big brother.
His fifth birthday was supposed to be special. He was starting prekindergarten that morning, and his classroom was having a little birthday performance. Mom had bought him a new backpack, and Dad had promised to bring home his favorite strawberry cake.
I woke up with a terrible ache in my chest. I tried ignoring it, but the pain grew worse while Mom helped Noah put on his new sneakers. Finally, I stood in the kitchen doorway and asked whether she could get my medicine.
Her hands stopped moving. She looked at the clock, then at Noah, whose bright smile had begun to fade. “Liam, please,” she said. “Can’t we have one morning that isn’t about you?”
I told her I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I only needed help because my chest hurt. Before I could explain more, she struck my cheek with an open hand.
“Your brother deserves a happy birthday!” she shouted. “We’re always running to hospitals because of you. We’re always afraid because of you. If you’re so determined to die, then just die!”
The kitchen went completely quiet.
Mom snatched my medicine bottle from the counter and threw it toward the hallway. It struck the wall and cracked. I raised my arm to protect my face, and a sharp piece of plastic caught my forearm.
Noah started crying. Mom grabbed his backpack and hurried him toward the front door, saying they were already late. She didn’t notice the thin line of blood appearing beneath my sleeve.
I wanted to call after her. Instead, I stood there staring at the door, wondering whether she had meant what she’d said. For years, she had begged God to let me live. Now she sounded tired of having me around.
I found a Band-Aid and pressed it over the cut. Within seconds, blood soaked through the little pad and ran down my wrist. I knew I should call someone, but all I could hear was Mom’s angry voice.
I tried wrapping my arm in a kitchen towel. Drops fell across the floor, and I became frightened that Mom would be upset when she came home. I bent down to clean them, but my sleeve only spread the mess.
Soon, I was trembling so badly that I couldn’t hold the towel properly. I felt terribly cold, even though the house was warm. Thinking a bath might help, I went into my parents’ bathroom and turned on the hot water.
I climbed into the tub with the towel still wrapped around my arm. The water gradually turned pink, then darker. I reached for my old cellphone and called Dad, but he didn’t answer.
Then I called Mom.
Music and children’s voices filled the background when she picked up. I could hear Noah laughing, and for one hopeful moment, hearing her voice made me feel safe again.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I don’t feel good. I cut my arm, and—”
“Liam, not now!” she interrupted. “Your brother’s performing. Why do you always have to make everything about yourself?”
I tried speaking again, but my voice had become very weak. She told me I was eight years old and old enough to stop acting selfishly. Then the call ended.
I stared at the dark phone screen. I wanted to call someone else, but my thoughts were becoming confused. I couldn’t remember our neighbor’s number, and my fingers kept slipping against the phone.
Mom’s blue cardigan hung over the side of the bathtub. I pulled it against my face, breathing in the familiar smell of gardenia laundry detergent. It smelled like the nights she used to hold me when I had a fever.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” I whispered. “I’ll be good.”
The water grew cold around me. The ceiling seemed to drift farther away, and the bathroom became strangely quiet. I closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them, Mom would be there.
When I opened them again, I was standing beside the bathtub.
And an eight-year-old boy who looked exactly like me was still lying in the water.
