The Baby They Swapped, The Girl They Broke

"Where do you think you're going? Dinner's almost ready."

She carried out a bowl of birthday noodles and set it down in front of my brother.

A fried egg sat on top, chopped scallions sprinkled evenly, steam still rising off it.

Something pulled me around, and I found myself moving to the table.

My father suddenly walked toward me holding two gift boxes, one big and one small.

The big one went to my brother.

"Happy birthday, son."

"Limited-edition sneakers. Had someone bring them in for me."

Charles ripped it open, took one look, and grinned so wide his eyes disappeared.

"Thanks, Dad! But stop spending so much. My shoe rack's already about to overflow!"

"Don't worry about it. I'll just have a bigger rack built, just for you!"

I didn't have a decent room of my own, but my brother had a whole room set aside for his prized sneakers and figurines.

I swallowed the bitterness and opened my box.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. A job offer from a nearby factory, willing to take on a cripple like me.

My father patted my shoulder and said, in that heavy, earnest tone of his,

"Vicky, I pulled some strings and found you a job. Only four hours a day."

"Your brother will provide for you later, of course, but you can't just be dead weight."

Not one of them asked what score I'd gotten. They'd already mapped out the rest of my life.

Without waiting for my answer, my father sat down at the head of the table.

My mother sat too, ladling out a bowl of soup for each of them.

Three sets of bowls and chopsticks were laid out on the table.

Same as always. None for me.

Every dish was something Charles liked, all of it spicy, and I couldn't eat spicy food.

I stood where I was and laughed at myself, laughed at what I'd even been hoping for.

Today was my birthday too.

I was born two minutes before Charles, so from the time I was small, my parents taught me:

"Vicky, you're the older one. You yield to your brother. You look after your brother."

I took those words as gospel. I protected Charles until I'd lost a leg doing it.

And I yielded to him for eighteen years.

Yielded up my birthday noodles, my birthday cake.

For as long as I can remember, all I got on my birthday was the leftover noodle broth Charles didn't finish.

My parents always cut him the biggest slice first, and I only got cake the next day, once he'd decided he was sick of it and it had already gone stale.

This year was no different.

No one remembered me.

My mother looked up, saw me still standing there, and said impatiently,

"What are you standing around for? Sit down and eat."

I looked at those three place settings, and for the first time I said out loud the thing everyone had always taken for granted.

"There's no place for me."

My mother went still for a second, her face darkening.

"Go get some from the kitchen yourself. You lost one leg, that doesn't mean I'm going to spoon-feed you at the table every single day. You're shut in the house from morning to night, you could use the exercise!"

Everything she said was always for my own good, always beyond reproach.

But I was the only one who understood, deep down, that in all that concern there wasn't a trace of love.

"I'm not hungry. You all eat."

I turned and started shuffling toward my room.

I'd only taken two steps when my father's shout came from behind me.

"Vicky, your mother worked hard to make you this dinner for your birthday, and you won't eat it? What's that supposed to mean?"

I paused, didn't turn around, and said calmly,

"I already told you. I'm not hungry."

My mother slammed down her chopsticks and started sighing.

"So you lost a leg, but you've still got hands, haven't you? You're going to sulk and refuse to eat just because I won't dish it up for you?"

"After today, you'll be eighteen, and you still expect me to do everything for you? By the law abroad, once you turn eighteen you go out and earn your own keep!"

"It's only because your father and I feel for you that we still keep you fed and cared for, day in and day out!"

Her voice grew thicker and thicker with tears.

By the time she finished that last line about keeping me cared for, her face was wet with them.

And that was the moment she finally remembered it was my birthday.

With my back to the table, I curved my lips.

"You're right. From now on, I'll earn my own living."

I was going to Ashford University, the school everyone dreamed of, not spending my life bolting screws on an assembly line.

The words had barely left my mouth when a rush of footsteps came charging up behind me.