I pushed off the covers, step by painful step toward the window. The night wind was cold, stirring my hospital gown. Curling up on the sill, I gazed at the sky as dazzling fireworks bloomed into shining words.
“Happy birthday to my precious daughter, Sophia Carter.”
My eyes blurred with tears.
Sophia—that had once been my name.
After Mom died, I became Emily.
Emily, the extra one.
I let out a frosty breath, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. Chemotherapy had ruined my vision; it took a long time to find Dad’s number.
Word by word, I typed carefully:
“Dad, I’m sick. I’m dying soon. Could you come see me one last time?”
The phone buzzed.
Only a voice message.
“Let me know after you’re dead.”
I tilted my head back, but tears still slipped into my mouth, bitter as poison.
How tragic—on my last birthday in this world, regret was all I had.
With a sigh, I pulled eight photos from under my pillow.
Each one I had drawn myself.
Each one showed the same scene:
A tall father, a gentle mother, and me.
This year’s drawing was only Mom, me, and Lucky.
I clutched it tightly to my chest.
