The Fortune Teller Said I Was Bad Luck, I Brought Them Worse Chapter 09

The Fortune Teller Said I Was Bad Luck, I Brought Them Worse Chapter 09

It was the neighborhood where Gavin and I had grown up, an alley in the old district.

The houses were long gone, replaced by commercial buildings, but the old locust tree at the alley’s entrance still stood.

I parked and walked under the tree.

It was ancient, trunk wide enough for two people to hug, bark cracked and scarred by time. I touched it, rough, familiar.

As kids, this tree was our sanctuary. In summer, we’d sit in its shade; Mom fanned us, Dad told stories.

Gavin and I played marbles, hopscotch, chased cicadas beneath it. He always trailed behind me, calling me “Isabella” over and over.

“Isabella, why isn’t this cicada singing?”

“Isabella, my shoelace came undone.”

“Isabella, I’m hungry.”

“Isabella, there’s a bug!”

I always found him annoying, but I helped him anyway. Tied his shoelaces, caught cicadas, shared my snacks, shooed the bugs away.

When did he stop calling me like that?

When did our conversations change to “I don’t have enough money,” “Help me out,” “Can you talk to Mom and Dad for me”?

When did I become a cash machine, a tool, someone whose happiness had to be sacrificed for his?

I leaned against the locust tree, slowly sliding down to sit on the ground.

The tears came, silent, relentless, unstoppable.

I remembered Mom’s words on the phone that morning, “You’re the older sister; of course you want your brother to have a happy marriage, right?”

Yes, I wanted that, but I’m only human. I feel hurt. I feel betrayed. I just want to ask why.

Why do I have to give unconditionally just because I’m the older sister?

Why do I have to step aside just because I’m the daughter?

Why is my happiness any less important than his?

Why?