Reborn The Son They Threw Away Became the Nation's PrideChapter 1

I was the throwaway child, the first draft they never planned to keep.

Mom and Dad sat me down together and asked if I wanted a little brother.

I looked at the toy car in my hands, the only toy I owned, and shook my head solemnly.

"I don't want a little brother. And I don't want a little sister either."

But they never cared what I thought. They laughed, handed me off to my grandparents, and didn't come back for a full year. When they finally did, they had a chubby baby boy in their arms.

Mom said he'd be my playmate. My flesh and blood.

But I never even made it to adulthood. My brother got leukemia.

I was strapped to an operating table, again and again, while thick steel needles punched through bone into marrow.

When his kidneys failed, Mom signed a voluntary organ donation consent form on my behalf. She had every legal right. She was my guardian.

I dropped to my knees and begged. I told them I had a clotting disorder. But Mom and Dad decided I was lying. They called me cold-blooded. They held me down while a nurse pushed the anesthetic into my veins.

I bled out on that operating table. Every last drop. The surgical lights were the last thing I saw, cold and white and blinding.

Then I opened my eyes.

……

Mom was crouched in front of me, her face glowing with maternal warmth.

"Desi, sweetheart, Mommy has a little baby in her tummy! Wouldn't you love a little brother to play with?"

She held two action figures in her hands. Behind her, a brand-new blue crib stood in the corner, the one Dad had just bought.

I looked down at the toy car in my hands. The only toy I owned.

I understood. I was back.

This time, I would never be my brother's blood bank. And I would never let my parents chain me with their hollow, counterfeit love.

Dad leaned in with that eager, coaxing smile. "Come on, buddy. There's a little brother growing in Mommy's tummy right now. You're always scared of sleeping alone, right? Once your baby brother's here, you'll never be lonely again."

He'd said those exact words in my last life.

But after my little brother was born, I was lonelier than ever.

Mom stopped reading me bedtime stories. Dad stopped pulling me onto his lap. Overnight, I became invisible in my own home.

Be good. Take care of your brother. Act like a big brother.

I was five years old when they said those things to me.