The Other Son

The room went quiet for a beat.

The second my mother heard me agree, a smug smile spread across her face. She pulled the paperwork out of her bag and shoved it at me, ordering me to sign right away.

My advisor, who had always looked out for me, hesitated. He grabbed my arm, clearly wanting to stall for time and try talking her down again.

Before he could say anything, the other students cut in, their voices sharp with frustration.

"Professor, we get that you feel bad for Curtis, but the rest of us matter, too. We can't let one person ruin all of our futures!"

"This is his family's problem. As Dylan's brother, it's only right that he helps him. As a professor, you should be thinking about the majority."

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

Of course. The moment their own interests were on the line, everyone chose themselves.

I shook my head at my advisor and signed the consent form.

The second my mother got what she wanted, she tossed the sample back onto the desk, then grabbed my arm and dragged me and Dylan to a private hospital.

The hospital rushed us through admission.

The night before the surgery, I got confirmation that my graduate recommendation had been approved, and I needed to go back to campus to finalize it.

I stopped outside Dylan's hospital room, planning to ask my mother for permission to leave for a bit.

Before I could knock, I heard my father inside. He had been overseas on business, but somehow he was back, and he was speaking gently to Dylan.

"Dylan, don't worry. Your surgery will go fine. Your mom and I will do whatever it takes to make sure you live a long life."

Dylan curled up in my mother's arms, head lowered, his voice small and shaky. "Curtis hasn't come to see me. Is he mad that I'm taking his kidney?"

Her expression darkened immediately.

"Don't think like that. That ungrateful kid only cares about his own future. Why would he care about family? Earlier today, his professor even called me, saying he had to go back and confirm some application. He's clearly trying to run. You're this sick, and he still wants to go to school like nothing's wrong! Why doesn't he just drop dead?"

Dylan watched them fly into a rage, his eyes filling with tears as he hurried over and hugged them.

"Mom, Dad, don't say that about him. Even when he told me a few days ago to give up treatment and leave all the money to him, he just wanted a better life for himself."

That set them off completely.

My father slammed his fist against the wall. "What?! He actually said that to you?"

My mother's face twisted with rage. "That heartless piece of trash! I'll tear him apart!"

They started for the door, ready to come after me.

A flicker of panic crossed Dylan's face. He rushed to hold them back.

"He already knows he was wrong. He's willing to donate now, so that means he still sees me as family. Please don't be mad at him."

My parents would never refuse anything Dylan said.

They softened instantly, patting his shoulder.

"You're too kind. That's why he can push you around."

"Sweetheart, don't feel guilty. Curtis caused you to be born prematurely, and that's why you've always been so weak. He owes you."

When I heard that, something twisted in my chest.

They had favored Dylan since we were kids, always making me give in to him.

It all started the day he was born. A dog chased me, and in my panic, I ran to my mother for protection and crashed into her.

She went into premature labor because of it. When they saw how frail Dylan was, they blamed me for everything.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you? You were trying to kill him before he was even born! What's wrong with you?"

They pinned me into a corner and beat me until my face was covered in blood. Several of my front teeth even got knocked out.

After that, every time Dylan got sick, it somehow became my fault. They would drag me to his bedside and force me to kneel there. I wasn't allowed to get up until he recovered.

As Dylan grew older, he learned to use their favoritism against me.

He made me hand over all my allowance. If I hesitated even a little, he would scrape his skin and blame it on me.

My parents never listened to a single word I said. As long as Dylan teared up, they would grab a belt and beat me until I couldn't get out of bed.

Even when I had proof, they called it fake and accused me of trying to frame him, and the beatings only got worse.

Eventually, merely existing felt like a crime to me.

Back then, I used to think that if I worked hard enough and proved myself, if I showed them I could succeed on my own, they would finally see me and maybe even care.

And yet, every time I brought home awards, they only pointed at me and shouted, "The only reason Dylan struggles in school is because of you! You stole his life, and now you're showing off in front of us!"

So when a chance to "fix" all of this came, my mother didn't hesitate to sacrifice me.