My Parents Sold My Future For Her Convenience Chapter 10
The face that filled the screen was gaunt. Wasted thin.
White hair covered almost all of her head. I didn’t
recognize her at first.
Then her voice came through, trembling: “Ce–Celia…”
I froze. My hand shook around the phone. And then I knew.
It was my mother. Four years since I’d seen her.
The next second–scraping, a chair toppling over, a heavy
thud. Someone had scrambled up too fast, knocked over a
chair, and fallen themselves.
Maybe minutes. Maybe seconds. Another face appeared in
frame. A hoarse voice: “Is–is that Celia?”
It was my father. He was barely past fifty, but his hair had gone completely gray. His back was bent, folded in on
itself.
I stayed silent. Stared through the screen, across oceans
and years, at them. Couldn’t find the words. My mother’s hand trembled as she touched the camera
lens, tears falling. “My Celia you’re so beautiful. You’re
such a young lady now…”
My father swallowed hard, then croaked. “Have they been
treating you okay over there?”
My thumb hovered over the End Call button. I couldn’t
press it.
The silence stretched. Finally, I shook my head, just barely.
Four years.
And these were the first words I said to them:
“I’ve always wanted to know, you had two daughters. Why
was the difference between me and Bianca so big?”
On the other end, both their faces went white.
A long pause. Then my father told me.
“The day we brought you home from the hospital, we ran
into a fortune–teller. She pointed at Bianca and said she
was blessed that she’d bring luck to the family. Then she
looked at you, frowned and said you were cursed that
you’d bring death to everyone around you.”
My eyes went wide. My voice shot up before I could stop
it. “You based all of this on some fortune–teller’s garbage?”
My father’s voice cracked, “At first, we didn’t believe it.
Your mother screamed at her, chased her off. But then,
every time something went wrong, we couldn’t help thinking… what if? What if it was real? So we started…”
So they started favoring Bianca more and more. And liking
me less and less.
My mother broke into sobs: “I’m sorry, Celia. I’m so sorry. We were wrong. But you came from my own body. How
could I not love you?”
“When you had that fever at six, I was out of my mind with
worry. When you got chickenpox at nine, everyone said
you might not make it. Your father stayed by your side for
three days straight. And then… and then…”
She tried to keep going. I cut her off. Called them:
“Mom, Dad.”
Their eyes lit up like I’d handed them the sun. It was the
first time in four years I’d said those words.