Five years old. The landslide. My twin sister and I were pinned beneath a massive concrete slab. To lift it off one of us meant crushing the other beneath the leverage. The rescue foreman put the choice on our mother: a life for a life. She could only save one. In that life, she chose me. And she hated me for it every single day that followed. Because I was the one who lived, I wasn't allowed to eat well. I wasn't allowed to wear nice clothes. If I was in school, I had to be number one. I wasn't allowed to cry, and I wasn't allowed to smile. I couldn't speak loudly, and I certainly couldn't go out to play with friends. Whenever my mother looked at me, she would point at my sister’s funeral photo and scream, "Your sister died because of you! How dare you not be satisfied with what you have?" I understood her agony. I bore it silently. Until I was thirty, when I was diagnosed with advanced stomach cancer. My mother didn't offer comfort; she shrieked in despair, "If I knew you were just going to die early anyway, I should have let you die back then." What she didn't know was that her younger daughter hadn't actually died. Suddenly, I’m back. Beneath the stone slab. And I hear my mother voice her choice to the rescuers. "Save the younger one," she says. In that moment, under the crushing weight, I close my eyes. All I feel is relief. 01 I’m dead. But my spirit hasn't moved on. I find myself floating, following my mom and my sister to the hospital. Inside the ambulance, my mom looks so young. With trembling fingertips, she gently brushes the mud-caked, matted hair away from my sister’s forehead. Tears spill from her eyes, hot and fast, landing on my sister’s face. Her expression is a mix of agonizing heartbreak and a terrifying, desperate joy. Outside, the sirens are screaming. But inside the rushing vehicle, it’s a quiet sanctuary. My mom whispers over and over, softly, "Maya. Maya, sweetie. Wake up for Mommy. Open your eyes. Look at Mommy." I have never heard that tone in her voice before. Not once in my entire memory. Not even in the life where I was the one lying in that ambulance. 02 In that life—the old life—the landslide happened just like this. We were pinned under the same slab. To save one meant crushing the other. A life for a life. My mom couldn't make the choice. The rescue crew finally suggested a brutal tie-breaker: they would pull out whoever reacted first. My mom scrambled onto the pile of debris. She screamed our names, her voice raw, tearing at her throat. "Sarah!" "Maya!" "Sarah!" "Maya!" Over and over again. I remember lying there in the suffocating pitch black. Suddenly, I heard her voice, exactly the way she used to call us on school mornings. Just like I always did, snuggled in my blankets, I called back automatically. "Coming, Mom!" Instant shouts of jubilation erupted outside. Then came the roar of machinery, the shifting of heavy rock, and amidst it all, a woman’s piercing sob. Blinding light cut through the dark. Dozens of rough, strong hands lifted me up. As I was carried away, jostled on a backboard, I heard the snippets of conversation. "The older girl is a miracle." "Kid’s got a guardian angel." "Shame about the other one." "Couldn't be helped. Any longer, we would’ve lost both." I was only five years old. I didn't understand what those words meant. I just wanted to know where my mom was. Where was she? I started crying for her. Immediately, voices from the crowd surrounding me rushed to soothe me. "Your mom is right here, honey. She’s right next to you. It’s okay." "Pinned for sixteen hours, and she’s remarkably stable. A miracle child." Through the cacophony, I strained to find her voice. Then, I saw her. I saw her face, an unreadable mask of paralyzing grief and absolute bewilderment. Later, I often wondered why I had to be the miracle. 03 Sarah and Maya. We were identical twins. Our dad was a city bus driver. He died in the line of duty, a horrific crash, when we were only three. He left us with a life insurance payout and a cramped unit in an old, city-owned apartment building. The pillar of our family was gone. My mom took my dad’s portrait to the department headquarters. Holding it against her chest, holding Sarah in one hand and Maya in the other, she sobbed in the administrator’s office. My sister and I were zombies. We saw her cry, so we cried too. We wailed. This was in the middle of a massive wave of layoffs. Somehow, through the pity, my mom secured a job working in the transit authority’s claims department. After that, my dad’s picture was hung on the wall. He watched over the three of us as we figured out how to survive. I used to sneak glances at that photo. I always thought he looked like he was smiling. Right up until the right side of the frame was filled with my sister’s photograph. After that, I never dared to look at that wall again. Deep down, I knew Maya was only on that wall because she saved me. I was supposed to be in that frame. 04 A family of four became three, then finally two. Our tiny apartment was always silent. The front door was always kept shut. Tight. Not even the wind could blow inside. Which meant the whispers of the neighbors saying my mother was cursed couldn't get in, either. Only the door to my room was required to be open at all times. So that my mother’s gaze could dart inside at any second. "What are you doing sitting around? Is your homework done?" "It’s done? Then review it again. You’re not just studying for yourself. You have to study for your sister, too." "Exhausted this early? You’re doing it on purpose, aren't you? Trying to stress me to death so you can finally be free." "Cry, cry, cry. I’m not even crying, and you have the nerve to cry." I became terrified of going home. But I had nowhere else to go. Everyone knew. Everyone knew my dad was dead, and that my sister died saving me. "Sarah, your mother has had a hard life. Be a good girl for her." "Sarah, why are you still outside? Your mom is going crazy looking for you." "Sarah, you cannot afford to be selfish." Whenever neighbors saw me, they felt entitled to educate me on gratitude. Without realizing it, I stopped lifting my head. I started walking pressed against the walls. Waiting for me at the end of every walk was my mother’s grim, tight-lipped face. I hated going home, and I hated being in a crowd. But I couldn't escape my home, and I couldn't escape people. Because I was only eight years old. 05 I soon learned that eight was actually a beautiful age. I started first grade. On registration day, old Mrs. Albright, our neighbor, popped a peppermint into my mouth. She said, "Sarah, you’re in real school now. Study hard. Be something someday. Your mother’s entire future relies on you. As long as you get good grades, your mother will be happy." I engraved that sentence onto my heart. I wanted my mother to be happy. Happy like she used to be. And sure enough, when I brought home my first perfect report card, the corners of my mother’s mouth actually lifted. It turned out it was true. Good grades made my mother happy. I began to study with a desperate vengeance. I fought to be top of the class, every single time. My mother’s smiles became more frequent. The day I was accepted into the city’s top magnet middle school with the highest entrance score, my mother took me to dad and Maya’s shrine to burn incense. She had a brilliant, genuine smile on her face. I looked up at the photos on the wall. I felt like my dad was smiling. And Maya was smiling. I smiled, too. But very quickly, I forgot how to smile. Magnet school was harder. My mom was holding the trimester ranking sheet. Her face was dark as she interrogated me. "Only ten points higher than second place? You used to beat everyone by twenty points minimum. Are you distracted? Are you doing this on purpose? Purposely trying to kill me with stress? You just want me dead so you can have an easy life, don't you? "If it weren't for you, I would have gone with Maya and your father. I drag myself through this miserable life solely for you." I shook my head violently. Terror gripped me. No, that wasn't it. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to explain. "I don't know why. I’m just always so hungry. I’m too hungry to sleep at night. Halfway through the school day, I lose all my energy." "Hungry?" My mom exploded. She started to weep bitterly. "I slave away every single day waiting on you hand and foot, and you have the nerve to tell me you’re hungry? Do I not feed you enough? Look at your sister! Did she ever get to eat a single hot meal that I cooked? You ungrateful, entitled brat." I didn't dare mention being hungry again. But hunger is a biological imperative of a growing body. Finally, during class, when my stomach let out another monstrous growl, my seatmate offered me a homemade oatmeal bar. Flush with embarrassment, I ate half. I wrapped the other half meticulously and hid it in my backpack. When I got home that night, my mother beat me savagely with a wooden spoon. "Tell me! Did you steal this? So young and already a thief. You want to end up in juvenile detention?" "Don't call me Mom! I don't have a criminal for a daughter." "Given to you? Why would anyone give you anything? Why you?" "You took it, why didn't you offer it to your sister first? You ate it all yourself! You have no conscience." "Why is my life so miserable? I should have died back then. I should have died." I explained over and over. I begged for mercy over and over. But the wooden spoon continued to fall, crack after crack, against my body. In the middle of that winter night, dressed in nothing but thin cotton pajamas, I was made to kneel before the photos of my father and sister. I kneeled there until dawn. I was burning up with a fever, curled on the floor. Before I lost consciousness, I saw my mother run over in a panic. She scooped me into her arms, sobbing, "Mommy’s sorry. Mommy’s sorry." I lifted my head slightly, my gaze drifting to the wall. For the very first time, I thought: Why wasn't it me in the frame on the right? I was thirteen years old. I had entered puberty. 06 The old folks used to say that every time a child survives a massive fever, they grow up a little bit more. I think they were right. The next time my stomach growled, I was grown-up enough to refuse my classmate’s snack. When I passed by neighbors’ homes, I was grown-up enough to refuse their kindness. "I’m not hungry." "I’m going home to eat." "My mom is cooking dinner." My backpack became heavier. It wasn't just books anymore; it held a massive thermos of water. When I was hungry, I just took a big gulp of water. The neighbors all praised me for how sensible and responsible I was. Only my seatmate in class completely ignored me. "Hmph. Snob. Too good for my oatmeal bars," my seatmate muttered to others, not bothering to lower their voice. "Ate half my bar and the very next day she’s out with a fever for a week. Her mom actually came to the school to yell at the teacher. My God! "My mom told me that girl is her mother’s entire world, her 'root of life.' Told me to stay clear. If something happens to her, we can’t afford the fallout." The group of kids around them burst into laughter. I wanted to sink through the floor. I apologized profusely, explaining I had just caught a cold from being underdressed, but more and more classmates stopped talking to me. Until one day, that seatmate hissed quietly, "You are so basic." In the mirror of the school restroom, I finally forced myself to look at my own reflection. I was swallowed up in a deep purple, high-gloss puffy coat. I remembered then. A woman in our apartment complex had put that coat in the charity bin. My mom took it out. Looking in the mirror, watching other students walk past... most wore black puffer coats. Boys wore grey or blue. The girls had a rainbow of styles—white, pink, a sky-blue like the heavens. Just me. In my purple garbage bag of a coat. Totally out of place. Below it were clunky, old-fashioned winter boots. I had become a purple-shelled snail with concrete blocks for feet. Deep shame settled over me. When I got home, I mustered the courage to ask for something else. A black puffer coat. I thought... black is normal, right? That should be okay. But my mother’s face went black instead. This led to my second savage beating. "Are you in love? Is that it? You want new clothes to show off? Who are you trying to impress? A boy? Tell me which boy! I’ll go to the school tomorrow and talk to the principal. "Are you cold? Do you not have clothes? Did I let you walk outside naked? Am I abusing you?" Finally, she pointed at the wall. Her body was shaking. "Why don't you ask your sister? Ask her if it’s cold six feet under. Ask her if she wants a new coat." I looked up. My eyes locked with Maya’s in the photo. Hot tears spilled from my eyes, one after another. Why... why did it have to be me that lived? I was fourteen years old. High adolescence. From that point on, I completely gave up on trying to be my own person. I still studied desperately, but high school was brutal. I couldn't keep myself at the top of the rankings. Sometimes, I even dropped out of the top thirty in the grade. Every single time, my mother would beat me with a hatred that only stopped when she was physically exhausted. I just took it silently. Inside, I was hoping... Yes. Just like this. Hit harder. Kill me. Kill me. Please, just kill me. 07 When it came time to apply for college, my mother sat down and filled out the applications for the local state university herself. She smiled and said, "You don't need to go out of state. The teacher’s college program here is the best. People fight to get into this program." I just muttered, "Okay." The day the acceptance letter arrived, the neighbors all came over to congratulate her. They praised me for being such a devoted daughter, knowing to stay close to take care of her. Only my high school guidance counselor was disappointed. "With your test scores, applying to a local teacher’s college is a tragic waste." But then, thinking of my home situation, he just let out a deep, defeated sigh. "You’ve had it tough. But your mother has had a hard life, too." I knew that’s how it would be. If the outcome was preordained, why struggle through the process? Struggle only leaves you with more heartache. After graduation, I smoothly secured a stable job as a teacher at a local middle school. Mrs. Albright next door, whose hair was now entirely gray, said to my mom, "Mei, you finally made it through. You made it." My mom cried and laughed at the same time. I floated past the crowd of neighbors and looked at my mother. I looked at her exactly the way I had when they pulled me out from under that concrete slab. Mom, back then... were you happy that one daughter lived? Or were you only sad that the other one died? Mom, are you happy now? Mom, am I a good girl yet? 08 Everyone said my mother had a bitter life. Losing her husband, losing a daughter, raising a child alone. And just when things were finally supposed to get easier, I got sick. Stomach cancer. Stage three. When I saw the diagnosis, I was remarkably calm. Hunger had been the defining theme of my growth, and the stomach is an emotional organ. I had felt the discomfort in my upper abdomen for years. But I was so used to enduring, I couldn't tell the difference between pain and hunger anymore. I was very used to enduring. I had no intention of seeking treatment. I decided to leave all my savings to my mother for her retirement. I planned to keep it a secret, but my mom found the diagnosis report hidden under my mattress. She read the report over and over. Then she let out a piercing, desolate scream and started tearing at her own hair. I stepped forward to stop her, and she shoved me away with brutal force. She pointed at me, then pointed at the wall. Her eyes were wide with terror, her face twisted in an ugly mask. "If I knew you were just going to die early anyway, I should have let you die back then. "You debt collector. "You should have been the one to die." My hands dropped loosely to my sides. After a long silence, I whispered back, "Okay." That night, I left the apartment. I stood in the cold wind and jumped into the city river. I left no note. I had no regrets. I was a good, obedient girl. Wasn't I? My photograph was finally hung on the wall. I was placed to the left of my father. Maya was to his right. Only my mother was left alive. Old Mrs. Albright stood clutching the doorway, her heart breaking. "Mei... your life... why does it have to be so hard?" Did my mother truly have a hard life? Right now, as I watch her smiling in this hospital ambulance, looking at Maya, I have to wonder.
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