The Weight I Kept, The Family I Lost Chapter 06

The Weight I Kept, The Family I Lost Chapter 06

Three days after I died, Dad found the kitchen scale under my bed.

The white casing had turned yellow, and a shriveled bit of food was still stuck to the edge of the

screen.

Next to the scale, a diary was tucked away.

Mom sat on my bed, holding the diary. Her hands trembled for a long time before she finally turned to the first page.

I was six years old that year.

The handwriting was crooked, and every page was covered with hearts.

[My little sister was born today.]

[Dad didn’t come to pick me up from preschool, so my teacher stayed with me until it got dark.]

[Dad definitely didn’t forget about me.]

[He just loves Sophie so much, and he knows I’m the most well–behaved and can wait on my own.]

A crumpled little flower was tucked between the pages of the second entry.

[I came in first place, and I want to give this little flower to Mom.]

[But Sophie spit up her milk, so Mom didn’t see it.]

[That’s okay.]

[Mom takes care of Sophie because she can’t talk yet.]

[I can talk, so Mom doesn’t need to look after me.]

When Mom read this, she suddenly burst into tears.

She remembered that little flower.

That day, she was busy changing Sophie’s clothes and casually tossed it into the trash can.

I crouched next to the trash can and searched for a long time.

She even said I was in the way and told me to go back to my room.

But in my diary, I wrote:

[Mom threw away the little flower because she was afraid it had germs on it.]

[She was protecting me.]

[Mom loves me the most.]

When I was eight, Sophie tore up the drawing I had prepared for a contest.

Dad said impatiently, “It’s just a piece of paper. Why not just draw another one?”

“Sophie just fell asleep. Do you really want to wake her up?”

But in my diary, I wrote:

[Dad believes I can draw even better.]

[He sets high standards for me because he cares about me the most.]

Every time, Mom and Dad would say Sophie was still too young.

Every time, I explained it for them.

[Mom isn’t playing favorites. She just thinks I’m better behaved.]

[Dad isn’t ignoring me. He just knows I won’t make a fuss.]

[They always tell me to give in to Sophie because they trust me the most.]

I wrote these words down on paper over and over again.

Like a spell that, if repeated often enough, would come true.

Mom suddenly closed the diary.

“Please. Don’t look at that.”

But Dad kept turning the pages.

On the page for my twelfth birthday, I didn’t draw a heart.

An entire sheet of paper, with just two sentences written on it.

[Mom said, ‘You won’t die from skipping one meal.‘]

[But after I fainted from hunger, she held me all night.]

The next day, I added:

[I understand.]

[It’s not that Mom doesn’t love me. It’s just that I didn’t need her enough back then.]

On the first day I brought the kitchen scale home, I carefully recorded the weight of every meal.

Breakfast: just under seven ounces.

Lunch: Sophie put a piece of pork chop in my plate, and it went over seven ounces. Mom threw my

food away.

Dinner: I didn’t eat.

But at the very bottom of that page, there was still a heart drawn.

[Mom made me a plate of mashed potatoes herself. Sophie has never been treated that way.]

[Mom really does love me more.]

The next day, I was made to stand by the dining table and watch Sophie eat a drumstick.

I wrote:

[Mom looked at me three times while we were eating.]

[She kept looking at me. That means I’m all she can think about.]

On the third day, I fainted from hunger.

Mom held me in her arms and cried, saying she would never punish me again.

I drew seventeen hearts on that page.

[Mom cried for a long time.]

[Dad kept holding my hand, too.]

[I was finally more important than Sophie.]

From then on, my diary turned into a ledger.

Every time I skipped a meal, Mom asked me about it.

If I skipped two meals, Dad spent half a day with me.

All it took was one fainting spell, and they’d hover around me for days.

I drew a heart next to each item.

As if I was calculating how much more weight I needed to lose to receive enough love.

When I was fourteen, Sophie competed in the dance finals, and I got so sick I had to be hospitalized.

[Mom and Dad didn’t go to watch her competition.]

[They were both with me.]

[There were twenty–three hearts today.]

When I was fifteen, on Sophie’s birthday, I was rushed to the ER with a stomach hemorrhage.

[The cake wasn’t cut, and the candles weren’t blown out.]

[Mom said that as long as I’m okay, she doesn’t want anything else.]

[She even gave up Sophie’s birthday.]

[She really, really loves me.]

When I was sixteen, Sophie had a high fever.

Mom left her some fever reducers, then turned around and went with me for my endoscopy.

I wrote:

[Sophie had a fever of 102, but Mom still chose me.]

[I won.]

But I crossed out those three words.

Below, I wrote:

[It’s not about winning.]

[Mom and Dad have always loved me the most.]

[They used to tell me to give in to Sophie because I was the better one.]

[Now they’re spending time with me because they’ve finally realized I need love too.]

The paper was covered with large smudges of ink blurred by tears.

I kept telling myself over and over again:

[They love me.]

[They really love me.]

[It’s not out of guilt.]

[It’s not because they’re afraid I’ll die.]

(Even if I get better, they won’t go back to favoring Sophie.]

I wrote the same sentence forty–seven times in a row.

The forty–eighth time, only half a sentence.

[But I can’t get better.]

Dad dropped to his knees beside the bed, clutching the diary, and pressed his forehead against the edge of the mattress.

So I hadn’t been blind to their favoritism.

I just couldn’t admit it.

Because if I did–if I accepted that what they gave me wasn’t love but guilt, just the terror of losing another child–then those six years meant nothing.

So I had no choice but to lie to myself.

When Mom cried, it meant she loved me.

When Dad took me to the doctor, it meant he loved me.

The one time they left Sophie behind for my sake made up for all the times they’d left me behind for hers.

It’s not that I never woke up.

I just forced myself back to sleep every time I started to wake.

At the end of the diary, there was a piece of paper I’d written before going to the clinic.

[The doctor keeps asking me if I have any emotional baggage.]

[I don’t.]

[Mom and Dad love me the most.]

[Everyone else can say they’re biased, but I’m not allowed to.]

[Because if even I don’t believe they love me, then what was all that hunger I endured over the years?]