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I was fifteen when I donated my bone marrow to Claire. I told myself that once she was discharged, the four of us could finally be a real family—happy, whole, together. I was wrong. In this house, there was only one daughter: Claire. And I? I was just the medicine keeping her alive. That night, I opened my mother’s diary. The first page was dated two years before I was born. It said only one thing: [Doctor says it's best to have another child—a family donor gives the best success rate.] Every page after that recorded Claire's illness. My existence only ever shows up under one column: Donor. Fifteen years. Turns out I was never a daughter. I was a line item on a prescription. No wonder no one came to check on me after the surgery. No wonder no one was there to take me home. While Claire was welcomed back with open arms, with a bowl of freshly peeled fruit and Mother sitting by her side, shelling shrimp for her bite by bite. Since I was only ever medicine and since Claire was already cured... It was time for the vial to disappear from the cabinet. Our family has two photo albums. Claire's runs from the day she was born to her sixteenth birthday, every page dated, every note handwritten. Mine has seven photos. All of them taken at the hospital. Blood type panel at six months. HLA genetic matching test at one year. First bone marrow biopsy at three. The back of every photo has the same line written on it: [99.8% match with Claire.] The year I turned fifteen, I had a bone marrow transplant and spent five days in a hospital bed. When Claire came home from her recovery, Mom and Dad hung a banner in the living room: [WELCOME HOME, CLAIRE.] And I was still at the hospital getting a fever-reducer IV. Nobody came for me. I took an Uber home myself. When I walked in, Claire was lounging on the couch, eating cherries. Mom was peeling shrimp for her. I said I still felt dizzy. Dad didn't even look up. "Young people bounce back fast. Don't be dramatic." That night
