Cutting Their Losses

The papers in the fire curled as the flames consumed them. Black ash drifted into the pot roast on the dinner table.

They were photocopies of my birth certificate.

My father, David Parker, wore the tailored suit he only put on for meetings with important clients. Not a single wrinkle marked the cuffs.

"Hannah Parker, starting today, you're no longer an official member of this family." His voice wasn't loud, but the cold indifference in it left no room for hope.

My mother, Jennifer Parker, sat beside him, peeling shrimp. One by one, she arranged the shrimp neatly onto Abby's plate.

"In other words, from now on, the family budget only includes Abby," she said, sliding the plate toward my sister, Abigail Parker.

Abigail smiled sweetly. "If Hannah doesn't behave, can we send her away?"

Her childish voice sounded innocent, but every word drove into my ears like an icicle.

Mom's hand paused for just a moment before she gently patted Abby's head. "You're so smart, sweetheart. I was thinking the same thing."

I sat on a little wooden stool, my feet dangling above the floor. I didn't understand what it meant to be an "unofficial member".

I only knew one thing. Tomorrow, I wouldn't be going to school anymore.

Dad had already decided that tuition was a sunk cost—one that wasn't worth wasting on a child with no talent.

"You can teach yourself," he said after taking a sip of soup. "If you do well enough, we might consider letting you become Abigail's study companion."

Abigail turned to look at me. "I don't like her. She's ugly. I'd be embarrassed to take her anywhere."

The room fell silent.

Dad slowly set down his cutlery.

"Then she can be the maid," he said matter-of-factly. "Cleaning, laundry... someone has to do those jobs."

Mom didn't say a word. She simply pushed a plate of green peppers toward me—the one vegetable I'd always hated.

"Eat. This will be your paycheck from now on."

I ate until I was painfully full. The peppers were so spicy that my tongue went numb.

That night, they moved my bed into the storage room. There were no windows. Only a ventilation fan buzzed endlessly overhead.

Sometime after midnight, I woke up thirsty. I fumbled through the darkness and crept upstairs to find some water.

As I passed the living room, I heard Mom crying.

"I don't want to do this either. But you've seen it yourself. Abigail's a genius. We can't let anyone hold her back. If we raise both girls, we'll probably end up with two average daughters."

Dad's voice was low, steady, and utterly matter-of-fact. "It's better to rip off the bandage now than make everyone suffer later."

I stood frozen in the shadows.

Suddenly, I wasn't thirsty anymore.

I went back downstairs, curled up beneath the moldy blanket on my narrow bed, and stared into the darkness.

In that moment, I knew I had already died.

I died on a night when I was seven years old, burned alive in a fire they called reason.