For a moment, I said nothing.
Then I looked down at my left leg.
The polished titanium of my prosthesis showed beneath the tailored hem of my trousers.
I tapped it twice.
“I owe you?”
My mother’s expression changed.
Good.
Maybe she remembered.
I was ten years old when doctors discovered an aggressive bone cancer in my left leg.
Within weeks, surgeons amputated above the knee.
I still remember waking after surgery.
The confusion.
The pain.
The empty shape beneath the blanket.
And most of all, calling for my mother.
Beatrice finally arrived hours later.
She didn’t hold me.
She didn’t touch my hand.
She stood at the end of my hospital bed and stared at the space where my leg had been.
Then she said,
“What are we supposed to do with you now?”
I was ten.
From that moment forward, I stopped being her daughter.
I became an inconvenience.
Chloe, my younger sister, remained the perfect one.
She had ballet lessons.
Designer dresses.
Expensive birthdays.
Vacations.
I had aluminum crutches that didn’t fit properly because my parents said a quality prosthetic was “too expensive for something unnecessary.”
Whenever guests came over, Mom would send me upstairs.
“People don’t need to ask awkward questions.”
She wasn’t protecting me.
She was hiding me.
