They Sued the Wrong Daughter

The first time I ever smashed a bowl, it was over a phone, Eden's new phone. She spent half of dinner showing it off. The case was pink, with a string of tiny bells dangling from it. Every time she lifted her hand, the bells jingled. I hadn't been sleeping well. For several nights in a row, I hadn't fallen asleep until three or four in the morning. The tiny sound grated on my nerves. "Could you stop waving that thing around while we're eating?" Eden glanced at me, grinned, and shook it even harder. "Nemo, are you seriously jealous of a phone?" My mother jumped in at once. "If you were as well-behaved as your sister, we'd buy you one too." I said nothing. I knew it wouldn't matter, so I kept my head down and ate. A plate of roast chicken sat on Eden's side of the table. In front of me was the salad left over from lunch. It had always been like that, and I thought I'd gotten used to it. But that day, I couldn't stop staring at the chicken. Eden picked up a piece with her fork and deliberately waved it under my nose. "Want some, Nemo?" My mother answered for me. "She doesn't like chicken. She only eats vegetables." I looked up. "Who told you I don't like chicken?" The table went quiet. My mother frowned. "What's wrong with you now?" It was the word again. My hand froze over my bowl. "When I was nine and came first in my class, I asked for a book that cost a little over $30. You said we couldn't afford it. That same year, Eden barely passed and asked for lobster. You went right out and bought it." My father set down his fork. "That was years ago. Why are you still bringing it up?" "Because nothing has changed." "What hasn't changed?" My mother snapped. "It's one phone. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?" Leaning back in her chair, Eden said softly, "Nemo's just under a lot of pressure." She made herself sound so caring. I stared at the pitiful look on her face. Only when I glanced down did I realize I'd bent the spoon in my hand. I looked down. My hand was trembling. I put down the spoon, pushed my bowl away, and headed for my room. I couldn't stand looking at any of them. My mother slammed down her fork, jumped to her feet, and accused me of giving everyone attitude. She grabbed for me. I jerked away and knocked a bowl off the edge of the table. It shattered against the floor. For a second, we both froze. Then she slapped me. The blow sent me stumbling into the doorframe. I caught myself against it, tasting blood in my mouth. A deafening ring filled my ears. Everything around me sounded farther and farther away until I could barely make out the voices. My mother was still saying something. I could see her lips moving. I strained to focus and tried to read them. Then everything went black. As I collapsed, the last thing I heard was an ambulance siren. The ER found no obvious physical injuries. After hearing about my insomnia, racing heart, and fainting spells, the doctor told me to come back to the mental health clinic the next day. My mother sat beside me throughout the appointment. The doctor asked, "Have you had thoughts of not wanting to be alive?" "Yes." My mother whipped around, her expression turning ugly. I knew that look all too well. I'd caused trouble for the family again. The doctor recommended ongoing treatment and told my family to keep a close eye on me. My mother's first question was, "How long will she have to take medication?" Her second was, "How much is it going to cost?" And my father couldn't have cared less. The doctor told them that my safety and treatment had to come first. Out in the hall, my father lowered his voice. "Don't tell people about this. It won't look good if anyone finds out." I didn't say another word. They worried about the cost of my medication, my grades, and the shame of people finding out they had a daughter with a mental illness. No one asked how much I was hurting or why I had gotten sick. On the way home, my mother bought me a bowl of chicken soup. Then she patted my shoulder and told me to stop holding things against Eden. She was still young, after all. I laughed. She mistook it for agreement and told me I was the most sensible person in the family. I was 18. Eden was 16. In our house, those two years could excuse her forever.