When the Countdown Ended, I Became the Family Curse Chapter 01 (Continue)
The day I was born, my parents’ smiles vanished the moment the nurse placed me in their arms. A string of numbers hovered above my newborn forehead, invisible to everyone else.
6,570 days. Exactly eighteen years.
The nurse dismissed their sudden pallor as first-time jitters. Only my parents understood what those numbers meant: a countdown to the day I would die.
The rest of the maternity ward celebrated new life while my parents were already mourning mine.
For the next eighteen years, I was the most cherished person in our family. No matter how tight money got, the biggest portions went to me, the choicest cuts of meat went to me, and any new clothes were mine first.
My brother Sean Miller could only sit there and watch.
“Let Mia have it,” my parents would say. “She doesn’t have much time.”
I understood early. I never complained, never fussed — I just sat quietly, knowing I was going to die.
On my eighteenth birthday, I blew out the candles and said my goodbye to the world. A real one — not the kind you say at the end of a party.
The next morning, my parents and Sean filed into my room dressed in black, their eyes swollen and raw from crying.
I blinked awake and smiled at them. “Good morning.”
Nobody moved. The grief on their faces twisted into something else — first confusion, then shock, then something I couldn’t quite place.
Then their expressions hardened.
…
“You — how are you still —” Sean’s voice cracked. He shrank behind Mom like he was looking at a ghost.
“I didn’t die,” I said.
Dad’s face went through a range of emotions before he managed a smile. “Well — that’s good. That’s good.” He nudged Mom. “Let’s get breakfast going.”
Mom nodded, blank-faced. She made it to the doorway and turned back to look at me one more time.
There was something in her eyes I’d never seen before, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.
For the first time in eighteen years, something in our house felt wrong.
Breakfast was a grim affair. Plain oatmeal and a single hard-boiled egg.
Sean pushed the egg toward me like he always did. I reached for it — and a sharp slap echoed in the kitchen.
Mom’s hand came down hard on mine, and my skin flared red instantly.
“You’re how old now, and you’re still taking food off Sean’s plate? Don’t be so greedy.”
I pulled my hand back. I ate the oatmeal and nothing else.
After the meal, I jumped up to do the dishes. Before, Mom would have shooed me away with a laugh, “Sweetheart, you don’t need to do that.”
This time, she watched me with flat eyes and said nothing.
When I finished, I left the dish rag draped over the faucet without wringing it out. Mom came back into the kitchen and spotted it immediately.
“What is wrong with you? You’re just going to leave that sitting there? You want it to mildew?”
I flinched and grabbed for the rag.
“Eighteen years!” she screamed at my back, her voice razor-thin. “Eighteen years I raised you. The biggest portions — yours. The best of everything — yours. Every new outfit — yours. Has Sean ever gotten anything new? Not once!”
“And what do you have to show for it? You can’t even wash a dish right!”
“Mom, I did wash them — it was just the rag —”
“Are you talking back to me?” she shouted, ripping the cloth from my hand and hurling it to the floor.
“Wipe that look off your face. Eighteen years on this earth and you can’t even wring out a dishcloth. What good are you?”
Dad wandered over. He glanced at Mom’s contorted face, then at mine, stunned and stinging.
He waved his hand dismissively. “What’s all this about? Let’s just drop it. Everyone find something to do.”
I bit my lip. “Mom, Dad.” My voice was barely audible. “Is this happening because I didn’t die?”