"We already got the refund on the transplant fees. What's the rush? We'll reschedule after the holidays. Just buy her one of those secondhand harmonicas so she doesn't think we're playing favorites."
Harry came bounding out of his new bedroom—the sun-facing master suite that had originally been mine.
When I was moved into this windowless spare room, Mom's exact words had been:
"Harry has PTSD. He needs plenty of sunlight and open space. You're the big sister. Make the sacrifice."
So I did.
I gave up the room. I gave up the oxygen concentrator. I gave up the asthma inhaler. And finally, I gave up the surgery that was supposed to keep me alive.
Harry tugged at Mom's sleeve, swinging it back and forth.
"Mommy, Mommy, is sissy still in there throwing a tantrum?"
Mom slid a sheet of paper under the door.
I knew exactly what was on it.
Last night, Mom had told me to sign a "Be Grateful to Your Brother" pledge. When I refused, she locked me in.
"Libby, I reprinted a fresh copy of the pledge for you. Whenever you're ready to come out and sign it, just say the word. I'm not forcing you, but think about how pitiful Harry is. His birth parents are gone. Do you really have the heart to make him sad?"