The Daughter They Wanted

I stood before the dressing mirror in my bedroom, carefully studying my reflection—the brows, the bridge of my nose, even the curve at the corner of my smiling mouth were exactly like my uncle Drake Lincoln's. Whenever my mom Willow Lincoln passes by my room and catches sight of me in the mirror, her brow immediately furrows, as if she has seen something deeply troubling. And whenever my dad Tony Johnson finds the musical scores I hide in my desk drawer, he never hesitates to throw them onto the floor, sometimes even pressing them lightly with his foot, as if the notes on those pages were some loathsome stain. "Just like your uncle Drake—obsessed with that worthless music. It's a dead end, and so are you." Each time they speak those words, the contempt in their tone pierces my heart like a needle. Every dinner is enveloped in a deathly silence that hangs over both ends of the table. Dad keeps his head bowed, picking at the rice in his bowl, while Mom stares absentmindedly at the rim of hers; from beginning to end, not once does anyone ask what I learned at school or if I was happy. I can only retreat to my small room to write songs, pouring every grievance and hope from my heart into the melodies, yet I dare not play them too loudly, lest my parents hear and respond with yet another round of reproach. Every night as I lie in bed, it feels as if a heavy stone is pressing upon my chest, suffocating me. When I close my eyes, it is the indifferent faces of my parents that haunt me, and no matter how I toss and turn, sleep eludes me. One evening, after Mom returned from work, she sat on the sofa, sighing. I had intended to return to my room, but suddenly a voice, strange yet sweet, emerged from my own mouth. It said, "Mom, you've worked so hard. Shall I pour you a glass of water?" Upon hearing these words, Mom's eyes suddenly brightened. She looked up at me, her face softening into a tender smile I had never before witnessed. She even reached out to touch my head, not pushing my hand away as she usually did. From that day on, this sweet "me" appeared more and more frequently. My parents gradually began calling her "Celia"; they seemed to especially favor this "daughter" who spoke softly and knew how to please them. Once, I overheard Mom whisper to Dad, "I wish our Sylvia could be just like Celia — so low-maintenance and sensible." That sentence was like a sharp knife, piercing straight through my heart. I feel my consciousness growing lighter, bit by bit, until it curls up in a corner deep within, no longer daring to emerge. When I regain awareness, I find that Celia has fully taken over this body. She wears the pink dress Mom just bought; Dad holds a freshly picked strawberry to her lips. Both parents surround her, talking and laughing, their eyes filled with tenderness. I try silently calling "Dad," "Mom" within my mind, but it is as if they cannot hear me, still lost in conversation with Celia. It was only then that I understood Sylvia had, as an existence, utterly vanished from their world.