They Valued a Guinea Pig More Than Me, So I Left Chapter 02
Our family had one rule you didn’t break: Saturday night dinner together.
The table was a long rectangle. Seated twelve.
The seating never changed.
My dad took the head.
My mom, my older brother, my younger brother, and my sister sat on either side of him.
Then came my sister’s guinea pig.
The guinea pig had its own raised chair next to her, cage door facing the table.
My mom said it was so “Pixie can feel the family atmosphere.”
My brother’s Golden Retriever lay at his feet on a custom mat.
My younger brother’s Ragdoll cat perched on the chair beside him with its own cushion.
Three pets. Three special spots.
More important than me.
And me?
I sat at the very end.
One of those folding chairs shoved into the corner—too far from the table. Every time I wanted food, I had to stand up and lean halfway across.
One night I couldn’t take it anymore. I got to the restaurant half an hour early and put a folding chair right between my sister and the guinea pig.
I figured I deserved a real seat more than a guinea pig did.
At six thirty, everyone filed in.
My dad glanced at me, said nothing, and took his spot.
My mom sat down, looked at the seat, and frowned.
“Elara, go sit over there.” She pointed to the corner.
I said, “Mom, can I just stay here? The folding chair kills my back.”
My mom said, “That spot is Pixie’s. She’s used to it.”
Used to it.
A guinea pig was used to that seat, so I had to move.
I said, “Can’t her cage just go on the floor?”
Before my mom could answer, my sister jumped in. “Pixie will be scared! She’s never been anywhere else!”
My younger brother added, “Come on, Elara. It’s one meal.”
My older brother: “Just sit down already. Food’s getting cold, and Max is hungry.”
My dad: “Do what your mother says.”
Five people. Five sentences.
Not one of them saw anything wrong with giving a guinea pig a real seat while I sat on a folding chair.
I looked at them.
My mom’s face was already impatient.
That look that says, Why are you wasting everyone’s time over nothing?
I opened my mouth.
I wasn’t fighting with a guinea pig over a chair.
I just wanted to sit with them.
I just wanted to be treated like part of the family.
But even if I said it, who would care?
“Fine,” I said.
I moved the folding chair back to the corner and sat down.
That dinner, I still had to stand up and lean over to reach the food.
No one looked at me.
They talked about my brother’s new team, my younger brother’s competition, my sister’s brand deals.
My mom glanced down at the guinea pig’s cage. “Oh my God, Pixie’s eating so well today.”
My older brother gave Max a piece of meat.
My younger brother cradled Snowball in his arms and fed him salmon.
I sat on my folding chair, eating my dinner one bite at a time.
If I couldn’t reach the serving platters, I just went without.
After dinner, I cleared the table.
My mom headed upstairs without looking back. “Elara, grab the packages—Pixie’s new cage parts are by the door. Also your brother’s dog food and Ethan’s cat food.”
I said okay.
That night, I carried three boxes upstairs. On my way, I saw a family photo album on the coffee table.
My mom had just made it—hardcover, gold foil lettering.
I opened it.
First page: my dad ringing the bell at his company’s IPO.
Second page: my mom receiving a science award, surrounded by colleagues.
Third page: my older brother holding up a world championship trophy.
Fourth page: my younger brother on stage at the Math Olympiad.
Fifth page: my sister posing with her guinea pig for a photoshoot.
Sixth page: a family portrait—my dad, my mom, my older brother, my younger brother, my sister. Max at my brother’s feet, Snowball in Ethan’s lap, Pixie in Aria’s arms.
Five people. Three pets.
No me.
I closed the album and put it back.
I carried the packages upstairs, set up the guinea pig’s new cage in its special corner, poured dog food into Max’s bin, and stacked the cat food cans in Snowball’s cabinet.
Then I went to my room.
North-facing. Ten by ten. No bathroom attached.
I closed the door, took off my coat, lay down, turned off the light, and slept.
I didn’t say a word.
Because no one would have listened anyway.
