The Kindest Parents Locked Me in a Gas Chamber

Less than an hour after the post went live, it had over five thousand views.

The comments section exploded.

"Mr. and Mrs. Chavez are absolute saints. Who in this day and age would adopt a terminally ill orphan?"

"Libby sounds like such a good girl. She's so lucky to have been born into your family."

"This is what community spirit looks like! Someone nominate them for the Family of the Year award!"

Dad scrolled through the comments, his grin stretching wider with every one.

Mom walked over with a cup of tea and leaned in to look at the screen.

"Honey, don't reply to too many. It'll look calculated."

Dad grunted in acknowledgment.

"As for Libby, let her cool off one more night."

Mom nodded.

I floated above their heads, watching all of it.

Outside the window, snow fell in thick curtains.

The entire town was cheering for "the most loving parents in the world."

And the carbon monoxide concentration inside their biological daughter's room was enough to kill.

The day after the surgery was canceled, Mom got a sales call from an educational consultancy.

After she hung up, she turned to Dad. "There's a top-tier child trauma therapist. One-on-one sessions, twelve hundred dollars an hour. I think it'd be perfect for Harry."

Dad thought it over.

"Sign him up."

"What about Libby's surgery..."

Mom hesitated.

"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?"

No sound came from behind the door.

She sighed, then turned and cupped Harry's face in her hands.

"She's playing dead again. Throwing her little protest."

Dad was directing two delivery men as they hauled something into the living room.

They pried open the massive crate. Inside was an imported grand piano.

Walnut finish. Ninety-eight thousand dollars.

Harry shrieked and threw himself at the keys, hammering out a storm of ear-splitting noise that filled the entire apartment.

Mom crouched down beside him, her face melting with adoration as she wiped his hands.

"Gently, sweetheart. Don't hurt your fingers."

Dad was off to the side, tearing open another package. He pulled out a box of cough syrup and a rechargeable hand warmer.

The cheapest kind available. Ten bucks with free shipping.

"Put these by her door later."

He set them on the shoe rack without a second glance.

"If she's willing to sign and come out, she can have them."

Harry suddenly stopped playing. He tilted his head and stared at my bedroom door.

"Mommy, sissy's room doesn't even have any air getting in. Won't she get all cooked like a piece of meat?"

Mom peeled an orange segment and popped it into his mouth.

"Don't be silly. Your sister's in there meditating and reflecting on her behavior. Once she's done being sorry, she'll come out on her own."

Harry chewed the orange, mumbling through a full mouth:

"Then how come she hasn't made a single sound?"