They Ate Me Alive, But I Was Their Lifeline

I was only nine when the weight of Mom's illness pressed down on me heavier than the extra pounds I gained as a bone marrow donor.

For a while, my family served me sympathy on a silver platter. They spooned it out like a warm meal and celebrated me as their little angel—until Ginny dined with us as the adopted girl.

She was delicate and everything I wasn't. Suddenly, I was starved of my family's affection while she was full of it.

Then came the day she forced me to eat spoiled food that almost killed me. The taste was foul, but what left the worst aftertaste was the realization that my family wouldn't lift a finger to save me.

Not long after, my bone marrow was needed again when both my mom and my brother ended up in the hospital.

And just like that, they wanted their little angel back—the one who satisfied their insatiable hunger to be obeyed.

But I couldn't serve them anymore.

"What a pity," I said. "I don't save devils."