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My parents forgot my name—so they didn't buy me a train ticket. I stood at the gate while they walked away with my adopted sister Yasmin. She said my name was hers. After that, I was just "that one." Cedric, my childhood friend, brought Yasmin a 23,000 handbag. He brought me a discounted Coach bag—and told me to give up my job offer so she could take it. At dinner, I made a full meal. Yasmin gagged at the smell, so my parents threw it all away. When she held a knife to her throat, they all ran to her. She cut my arm instead. They didn't even notice. Cedric threw out my documents to "calm her down." I leave in three days for a research institute two thousand miles away. They don't know. They won't notice. When they ask where I am, I'll already be gone. And I'm never coming back. At the train station, I was stopped at the gate—my ID wouldn't pull up any ticket information. Mom glanced back at me. "Oh, that one, when I was booking, I suddenly couldn't remember your name, so I forgot to buy yours. Just buy your own." I forced a smile and nodded. Ever since Yasmin Vance was found six years ago, I—the adopted daughter who'd been switched at birth—had become invisible in this family. Not even worthy of a name. Because Yasmin said my name was originally hers. After that, whenever she heard my name, she'd fly into a hysterical rage and threaten to end her own life. So from then on, I was only ever called "that one." I opened the ticketing app. All tickets to Santa Monica for the next three days were sold out. By the time I looked up, my parents and Yasmin had already vanished into the crowd. I messaged the family group chat: "Mom, Dad—I can't get a ticket. How do I meet up with you?" No one replied. An hour later, Yasmin posted a selfie. Mom replied instantly: "Who's this big star?" Dad sent a flower emoji. My childhood friend Cedric Grant transferred 30,000, with the memo: "Yasmin's travel fund." No one replied to me. No one cared if I made the trip. I
