They Valued a Guinea Pig More Than Me, So I Left Chapter 04
My parents.
It wasn’t like I never tried.
When I was little, I got the highest grade in the class and ran to show my dad my report card.
He was on the phone. He glanced at it, said “Mm,” and kept talking.
That report card ended up shoved inside a magazine. He never looked at it again.
The day Ethan won his Math Olympiad gold, my dad canceled all his meetings. Opened a bottle of wine. Said “That’s my boy” about fifteen times over dinner.
I was pouring his wine.
He raised his glass and looked right past me at Ethan.
He didn’t see me.
He never did.
My mom was head of surgery. She’d won national awards.
She’d saved a lot of lives. But she was never there when I got sick.
Winter break of senior year, my fever hit a hundred and four. I went to the ER at the hospital where she worked.
The nurse asked, “Where’s your family?”
I said, “My mom’s a doctor here.”
The nurse paged the OR.
My mom said, “I’ll deal with it after surgery.”
The surgery took six hours.
I sat in the ER infusion bay for six hours, burning up. My IV ran dry and no one came to change it. Blood backed up the whole tube.
A passing nurse saw and pulled the needle out for me.
As I lay there, I saw my mom walk past in her white coat, hurrying out of the hospital.
She didn’t ask if I was okay.
She didn’t ask if I’d eaten.
That night, I scrolled through my phone and found Aria’s newest video: “Pixie Has a Cold and Mommy Is Heartbroken.”
She was holding the guinea pig, eyes all red. My parents were right there with her.
Three million views. Comments full of “Aria don’t cry” and “Stay strong Pixie.”
I was in the ER. Alone.
My parents and my sister were worried about a guinea pig.
The next morning, I walked into the house.
It looked exactly like I’d left it. Dirty dishes on the coffee table. The trash can knocked over.
I was about to go lie down when I heard my mom’s voice.
“God, last night was so scary. I’m just glad Pixie’s okay.”
Then Aria, all soft and whiny: “Mom, can Pixie have strawberries today?”
They walked into the living room and saw me. Saw the mess.
My mom frowned. “Elara, you couldn’t clean up?”
I told her, “I was at the hospital last night.”
She looked me over. “What happened?”
“A hundred and four fever.”
“I told the nurse to page you.”
She paused.
I thought maybe she’d ask if I was okay.
She didn’t.
She just said, “You’re an adult. I have a million things going on. I can’t remember everything.”
I looked at her. “But you remembered to worry about the pig.”
My mom’s frown deepened. No guilt. Just irritation.
“You don’t have anything better to do than compete with a guinea pig? This is what you’ve come to?”
This is what you’ve come to.
I felt something crack inside my chest. Small. Quiet.
Then everything I’d been holding in for years just broke open.
“Really?” I said. “You ignore your own daughter to fuss over a pig, and you don’t see a problem with that?”
“If I mean less to you than a guinea pig, why did you even have me? Why don’t you just make Pixie your daughter?”
She froze.
Then she slapped me.
“Elara! You are completely out of line! Is this how I raised you?”
Her voice went sharp. “You complain that nobody takes you seriously. Maybe ask yourself why you’re such a disappointment.”
My dad stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched. “Apologize to your mother. Now.”
Aria held Pixie and tilted her head, looking at me like I was disgusting. “It’s just a fever. Do you have to make it such a big deal?”
The three of them and the pig stood side by side. One happy family.
I stood across from them.
Two feet apart. Might as well have been a galaxy.
I looked at the people I’d lived with for over twenty years, and I almost laughed.
Then I pulled the corners of my mouth up and spoke in a voice I didn’t even recognize.
“There’s no room for me in this family. I’ll move out. You can pretend I’m dead—that way I won’t be in your way anymore.”
