The App That Failed, The Love That Never Was Chapter 01

The App That Failed, The Love That Never Was Chapter 01

To keep things “fair”, my parents made my sister, Sylvie, and me book their time through an app.

Eight-year-old me clapped and laughed, thinking it was a fun game. But one rejected request after another drained every bit of my amusement.

Dad could never make it to my parent-teacher conferences—he was busy taking Sylvie to amusement parks. Mom couldn’t even pick me up when I fractured my leg; she was driving Sylvie to ballet lessons.

I came home sobbing and confronted my parents.

Dad’s expression hardened. “Sylvie submitted her request first. Naturally, her booking takes priority. If we bend the rules just because you throw a fit, what kind of fairness would this household even have?”

Mom sighed, looking helpless. “You’re always one step behind Sylvie. Try to submit earlier next time.”

That “next time” never came.

The day I had to finalize my college decision, I doubled over with appendicitis and a stranger rushed me to the ER.

The booking app crashed for hours straight. I couldn’t send a single request.

Right before they wheeled me into surgery, sharp agony tearing through my insides, I called Dad. “Dad, I tried to put in a—”

Dad cut me off, his tone ice-cold. “Sylvie sent in a request half an hour ago. Your mother and I are out shopping for her new clothes.”

In the background, Mom laughed along with my little sister. “No wonder nobody shows up for her.”

The line went dead. Through blurred eyes, I opened my inbox and accepted my offer from a school in LA.

I was done chasing affection I could never book.

***

I dragged myself through the front door at dawn, having signed myself out of the hospital. Every step sent searing pain ripping across my surgical incision.

When I unlocked the front door, the rich, savory aroma of broth filled the air. I froze. A bowl of chicken soup sat on the dining-room table.

Had Mom found out about my emergency surgery and made this for me?

Warmth flared in my chest. I reached for the spoon.

Mom sprinted out from the kitchen and slapped my hand hard. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t you dare steal your sister’s chicken soup!”

My palm burned. But my heart hurt far worse.

I cradled my stinging hand, my throat dry. “Mom… I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Mom stared me down, her face hard. “Did you open a booking request in the app stating you wanted chicken soup this morning?”

I shook my head and dropped my gaze.

Even if I had submitted one, nothing would change. For ten years, every meal request I sent got shot down by Mom.

“Sylvie booked it ahead of you. I’m just following the system.”

So Sylvie always got heaping, full plates. I got cold leftover scraps, hard, stale bread, and a tiny side of pickled vegetables.

I thought back to the app failure from the day before and forced the question out. “When exactly did Sylvie submit for this soup?”

Mom scowled. “I don’t remember, but it was definitely earlier than yours! Unlike you, your sister never drags her feet on anything!”

My fingernails dug deep into my palms. I was about to press further when Sylvie shuffled in, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Mom, I’m starving.”

Mom’s face lit up with a bright, doting smile. She slid the chicken soup in front of Sylvie. “You’ve had a cold lately. I added fresh ginger just for you. Drink it while it’s hot.”

Sylvie wrinkled her nose and tugged at Mom’s arm, whining. “I hate ginger.”

“Honey, you won’t get better unless you eat it.” Mom spooned some soup toward her, coaxing gently.

When Sylvie winced from the heat, Mom panicked at once. “Did it burn you? Hold on, I’ll get you ice water!”

What about me? The previous afternoon I’d shaken with chills, the pain so bad it felt like knives twisting inside my abdomen. Not one person had asked whether I was in pain.

I turned toward Sylvie, no longer holding back. “When did you book this bowl of soup?”

Sylvie paused mid-sip, flustered. “Uh… yesterday at three in the afternoon.”

Yesterday, three p.m. That was the exact moment they rolled me into the operating room, the app showing an “Error” message across the screen. There was no way Sylvie could have successfully submitted anything.

How ridiculous. I had bought into this transparent lie for an entire decade.