The Glass Doll They Left Behind Chapter 1

My diagnosis turned me into the family’s greatest burden after I had poor coagulation, their Glass Doll.

The doctor had given me five years.

Because of that sentence, my parents’ entire world revolved around me. They poured every cent, every moment of their lives, into keeping me alive.

The one day we had a faint sound of laughter was my fifth birthday. Only my little sister, Willow, was too young to understand the relief.

“Aubrey,” she asked, her voice small and bewildered, “is this the last birthday we’ll ever have with you?”

That was the first time Dad ever hit her.

Mom collapsed onto the floor, weeping and praying for some impossible extension of my time.

But on the morning Willow was supposed to start kindergarten, I whispered that my chest hurt a little.

Mom’s face shattered. She struck me, the sharp slap echoing in the silence.

“Why are you so awful?” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Do you have to make your sister miserable just to prove a point? Can’t we have five minutes that aren’t about you?”

“Go on! Go die, Aubrey! Just stop torturing us already!”

She grabbed the medicine bottles from the counter, sending them crashing onto the tiled floor, then hauled Willow away and slammed the door behind them.

I didn't say a word. I just stared at the small cut on my forearm, watching the blood well up, feeling the cold seep into my body.

* * *

I’d instinctively raised my arm when the prescription bottles smashed, and a shard of glass had found me.

I watched the slow, thick welling of red for a full two seconds before the doctor's long-ago warning finally surfaced: “Honey, you cannot have any cuts. Even a scratch might not stop bleeding.”

In a rush of panic, I fumbled for the first-aid kit. I slapped on a Band-Aid, but half a minute later, the white cotton was saturated.

I turned to grab a gauze roll, but the blood was already dripping onto the clean hardwood floor. Mom always kept the house immaculate. I couldn’t stand to give her one more thing to be angry about.

Frantically, I ripped at the sleeve of my pajama top, trying to wipe the floor clean. But the blood seemed to be actively spreading, painting a wider, messier smear with every swipe.

Finally, I just grabbed a hand towel, wadding it around the wound.

A chill began to set in, starting at my fingertips and burrowing deep into my bones.

I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the tub, letting the water get almost scalding hot. Only when I slid into the steaming bath did I feel a fraction of relief.

The blood was still flowing, instantly clouding the water and staining it a deep, alarming rose.

Suddenly, I desperately needed them. I fumbled with my watch and dialed Dad’s number.

It rang and rang. No answer.

Then, Mom’s.

The background noise was deafening—music, kids laughing, a kind of manic energy that felt miles away from my quiet bathroom.

“What is it, Aubrey? Make it fast. Willow’s about to go on.”

“Mom, I don’t feel well. I’m bleeding a lot...”

Her impatience sliced through the line. “Not well again? Seriously?”

“Is it physically impossible for you to be okay for twenty minutes when we’re not right there? Aubrey, you’re eight years old. You’re a big girl. Can you please just act like one?”

The sharp click of the dial tone was deafening in the empty bathroom.

I looked at the water, which was slowly, inevitably turning crimson, and wanted to cry so badly it hurt.

Mom was right. I was always a problem. My illness was a problem. My sadness was a problem. Now, my very blood was a problem.

Her favorite cashmere-blend sweater, left draped over the side of the tub, still smelled faintly of lavender.

I pulled it over my face. For a moment, it was like being little again, back when I had a high fever and she’d stay up all night, her face close to mine.

The water cooled.

The bleeding seemed to have slowed a bit. Maybe it was almost done.

As my head started to feel fuzzy, a thought settled: Maybe if the blood stops, the trouble stops too. Maybe then, I'll finally be fixed.

My parents wouldn’t have to spend every second worrying about their sickly daughter. My sister wouldn’t have to always concede to her fragile older sibling. I wouldn’t have to always be careful, always pretending to be the grown-up girl, biting my tongue to stifle a gasp of pain in the middle of the night.

Curled up in the tub, I felt safe—the way I imagined a baby must feel before it's born.