They Sued the Wrong Daughter

Chapter 2

My name is Nemo Hale.

There was no story behind it.

My father said the line at the records office had been long when they filed my birth certificate. The clerk rushed him, so he blurted out Nemo.

As a child, I never thought much of it.

Years later, a friend teased me. "Nemo. It means no one in Latin. Saves everyone the trouble, doesn't it?"

Everyone at the table laughed.

I laughed too. Back then, I didn't understand what it meant.

What made the word NEMO stick with me were all the little things that happened afterward.

The book I wanted when I was 9 was one of them.

Then there was the time I got sick.

One winter morning when I was 13, I woke with a pounding headache and asked to stay home from school.

My mother touched my forehead and said I wasn't that warm. She told me to stop pretending.

When I came home that evening, no one was there.

Half a bowl of cold pasta was all that remained in the refrigerator. Even the leftovers from the night before had been cleared out.

I stood before that empty refrigerator with a knot in my chest.

I heated the leftover pasta with some broth into a thin soup, found a packet of expired crackers, ate a few, then curled up on the couch.

They came home after midnight. Eden was carrying a shopping bag.

She had finished second to last at a school track meet.

My parents had taken her out for a buffet dinner.

When my mother saw me on the couch, her first reaction was to wake me. "If you're going to sleep, go to bed. What will people think if they see you here? They'll think we abuse you."

Three days later, Eden came down with a fever.

My mother took two days off to care for her.

She changed the cool washcloth on Eden's forehead four or five times, made her a pot of homemade chicken soup, and read the medicine label front to back before giving her any.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her replace the towel again and again.

At that moment, I envied Eden for one thing. She was allowed to be sick.

Whenever I got sick, I first had to prove I wasn't faking it.

Birthdays were no different.

Eden's was only three days before mine.

For her 10th birthday, our parents bought her a two-tier cake.

Strawberries and other fruit covered the cake. I'd once asked the bakery how much it cost. It wasn't cheap.

Three days later, it was my birthday.

My mother came home from work empty-handed. She'd forgotten.

I stared hopefully at her empty hands and timidly asked, "What about my cake?"

Only then did she remember. She pulled a small piece of Eden's leftover cake from the refrigerator, scraped off the grease from the other food, and stuck it in one of Eden's leftover candles.

"We're family. Stop being so picky." I made my wish quickly that year.

The cake had already gone a little sour. I couldn't finish it.

What stayed with me was what she'd said. "We're family. Stop being so picky."

After that, whenever I was the one expected to go without, those words always came back in some form.

When I was 12, Eden broke a vase, and my mother made me apologize.

The vase wasn't worth much.

But I still remembered standing against the wall, insisting three times that I hadn't touched it, and apologizing anyway.

After enough forced apologies, I second-guessed myself even after the fact. Maybe I really had done something wrong.

"You're the older one. You should've been watching her."

Another winter, my winter shoes were so tight they rubbed my heels raw.

My mother told me to endure them for two more months. Once spring came, I wouldn't need them anymore.

That weekend, she took Eden shopping and came home carrying a pair of new boots.

Eden had decided her old shoes weren't pretty enough.

When my mother caught me looking, her explanation came easily. "She has a school event. She can't show up looking shabby."

I nodded. The next day, I stuffed tissues into the backs of my shoes again so they wouldn't rub me bloody.

When I was 16, Eden wore my school jacket without permission and tore a cuff. I confronted her.

My mother said, "It's just a jacket. Let it go."

At 18, I was diagnosed with depression and told I needed treatment.

My mother said, "Your sister has exams coming up. Don't make this house miserable for everyone."

After that, she left me to manage my medication on my own.

Every night after dinner, she would ask in front of the whole family, "Did you take your medicine?"

To anyone listening, she sounded like she cared.

But whenever the doctor recommended a follow-up appointment, she said it could wait until after graduation.

Therapy was out of the question.

"We don't have money to throw around," she explained.

As far as she was concerned, caring for me was fine as long as it didn't cost too much or disrupt the family's routine.

As long as I took my pills, didn't cry or cause trouble, and kept my grades up, she considered me better.

She had no idea whether I actually took my medication. The question was for her peace of mind, not mine. My answer didn't matter.

That night, I stopped explaining.

I had already said everything there was to say, over and over.

They couldn't hear me, or they simply didn't want to.