“You were both treated.”
My sister looked at me.
“For the same condition?”
“No,” Walter said. “Sadie had optic nerve degeneration. Melanie had a severe immune disorder.”
I remembered how often Melanie had been sick as a child. Hospital stays. Fever. Months of isolation.
Our parents had always said she had simply grown stronger.
“She would have died before her third birthday,” Walter continued. “Harold used a modified version of the treatment to repair her immune response.”
Melanie’s face crumpled.
“Grandpa saved me.”
“Yes.”
“And I helped them kill him.”
“You were fifteen,” I said.
“I carried the pills.”
“You didn’t know.”
“But I stood on the porch while Dad hit you.”
Her voice broke.
“I knew that was wrong.”
I had imagined this moment countless times—the moment Melanie finally admitted what she had done.
I expected satisfaction.
Instead, I felt grief.
Because beneath the cruelty, jealousy, and competition, I suddenly saw the frightened child our parents had shaped into a weapon.
