The mug slipped in my hands. Tea sloshed onto the table.
“What?”
“You were having health issues back then, too. Do you remember? You were 13, 14. You kept getting dizzy. Your hands would go numb. They took you to doctors, several doctors, and there was talk of running extensive tests. Expensive tests.”
Pieces were clicking together in my head, but they formed a picture I didn’t want to see.
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“Your mother didn’t want you to worry. She told you it was just growing pains, just stress from school. But they knew they’d been told you needed follow-up care, and they used that money on Ava instead.”
Aunt Linda didn’t answer, which was answer enough. I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping loud in the quiet kitchen, paced to the window and back, tried to breathe through the tightness in my chest that had nothing to do with my medical condition.
“They sacrificed my health,” I said quietly, “for her music career.”
“I don’t think they saw it that way at the time. I think they convinced themselves you were fine, that the doctors were being overly cautious, that Ava’s opportunity was time-sensitive, and your medical issues could wait.”
“But they couldn’t wait. That doctor today said, ‘This has been building for years.’”
“I know, honey. I know.”
A memory surfaced, hazy and fragmented. I was maybe 14, lying in a hospital bed, the lights too bright. My mom was crying. I remembered her saying something. What was it? Something about how I couldn’t know something.
“She can’t know. She’s too young.”
What couldn’t I know?
“What couldn’t I know?” I asked aloud.
Aunt Linda’s expression shifted. Became guarded.
“What do you mean?”
“I just remembered something. Being in a hospital. Mom was crying and she said I couldn’t know something because I was too young. What was she talking about?”
My aunt was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was careful.
“You should ask your parents about that.”
“I’m asking you, Linda, please.”
I was begging now.
“Please just tell me the truth. What don’t I know?”
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at me with something like grief.
“When you were 14, you were diagnosed with a rare condition. I don’t remember the exact name, something neurological. The doctors wanted to start treatment immediately. Medication, monitoring, lifestyle changes. It was expensive. Long-term expensive.”
The kitchen felt airless.
“And my parents said no.”
“They said they needed time to think about it, to get second opinions, to understand all the options,” her voice was bitter now, “but what they really wanted was time to figure out how to afford Ava’s music school. And by the time they’d made that decision, they were too ashamed to tell you the truth about why they delayed your treatment. So they just pretended it never happened. They convinced themselves you were fine, that the symptoms had gone away, that the doctors had been wrong.”
“But I wasn’t fine.”
My voice broke.
“I’m still not fine.”
Aunt Linda stood and pulled me into a hug. I let myself collapse against her, shaking with anger and grief and betrayal.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered against her shoulder.
“I tried talking to your mother multiple times. She said they were handling it, that they knew what was best for you.”
She pulled back, hands on my shoulders.
“I am sorry. I should have done more.”
