Carved in Her Bones

3 years Earlier- Rhian

Joey was sick again. I'd heard him in the bathroom last night, vomiting in fits he tried to muffle by leaving the tap running. But my room was right next to his, and we shared that bathroom. He'd been up all night—again—the third week in a row now.

Downstairs, my parents sat oblivious at the breakfast table, insulated in their routines. To be fair, Joey was hiding it well. He was out all day and came home late, offering little more than a "See you" or "Goodnight." Dad was as he always was, reading the paper, tea in hand. Mom sat across from him, focused on her laptop, probably rearranging my schedule for yet another high-profile event. I felt a pang of weariness just thinking about it.

"Morning," I muttered as I slid into my seat across from Dad. Pouring myself a cup of tea, I gripped it tightly, bracing myself for the words I knew would change everything.

With a deep breath, I finally spoke. "Joey's sick again."

The words made Dad look up from his paper, and Mom froze, her fingers pausing mid-type.

"What makes you say that, Thandi?" Mom's voice was cautious, laced with a flicker of fear she tried to hide.

"He's been vomiting at night," I said quietly, looking down at the steam rising from my tea. "He tries to cover it up, running the tap... but it's been going on for weeks. He told me not to worry you, that he had it under control, but I think... I think it's happening again."

Mom's face went pale, her usual focus shattered. She looked right through me, her expression haunted—the same look she wore when she used to sit by Joey's hospital bed, clutching his hand through endless rounds of treatment. She didn't say anything. Instead, she rose abruptly, leaving her laptop open as she went up the stairs to Joey's room.

I watched her go, a guilt twisting in my chest that was as familiar as it was bitter. I hadn't told them right away, keeping Joey's secret partly out of loyalty, partly out of dread. I was just so tired of hospitals, of their sterile smell and endless waiting rooms. Every time Joey was sick, I was there too. And when the doctors found out that I was a match for him, it felt like I'd become more than his sister—I was his lifeline.

My dad's gaze lingered on me, as if he could sense the burden I'd carried alone these past weeks. "Thandi... you don't always have to be the one, you know," he said softly, as though he could read my mind. "We can look for other matches. It doesn't have to be you this time."

I managed a small, tight smile. "I know, Dad. But finding a match could take forever."

He sighed, understanding, but his eyes were pained. He knew me too well. I was the good daughter, the agreeable one, the one who always said yes.

If Joey was sick again, I'd be back in the hospital, back to day school so I could stay close. They'd need me.

So far, I'd given Joey a piece of my liver, my blood, even my bone marrow. I hated the marrow procedure most of all. The pain was something fierce, something I couldn't forget. But Mom had told me I was saving Joey's life, that I was "the miracle he needed." That was what she clung to every time she asked me to help him. And in the worry and chaos that came with his illness, they often forgot about me, about what I needed. I tried not to mind it. I was always a shadow in Joey's struggle for life, a silent support.

But the nurses remembered. After every procedure, they were the ones who sat with me, keeping me company in those quiet hours after I'd given another part of myself. They'd bring me ice chips, hold my hand, ask if I needed anything. Sometimes I felt like they were the only ones who saw me at all.

Now, looking up at my dad, I felt that familiar sense of resignation settle over me. I was more than Joey's sister—I was his spare parts. And as much as I wanted to be strong, to be there for him again, I wondered how much more of myself I could give before there was nothing left.