My baby brother keeps ignoring me.

I don't know why he ignores me.

Roman is two years younger than me, and yet he gets all the attention.

I draw for Daddy, but my masterpieces are just stuck on the refrigerator.

Daddy is always talking about him.

It's always, “Roman this, Roman that– let's ignore my daughter’s art, because I don't care about her anymore.” Urgh.

Mommy used to like my drawings.

She used to draw too, for her job–and I wanted to be just like her.

But then Mommy stopped going to work.

She stopped coming into my room to wish me goodnight.

She stopped smiling.

Daddy said she was okay, but Mommy cried a lot.

Then Mommy got pregnant with my brother, and she stopped looking like Mommy altogether.

Mom usually wore a white suit to work, her golden hair pulled into a ponytail.

We used to brush our teeth together.

Me, with my bright pink Barbie Princess toothbrush, and Mommy, with her very adult-looking brush.

She would ask me questions like, “Are you excited for school?” and talk about how excited she was about a new drawing she was working on. When she was pregnant with my brother, though, Mom didn't have a morning routine.

She served me and Dad scrambled eggs and orange juice, draped in her robe, her bulging belly making Mommy look like a balloon.

I had a feeling Mommy didn't want a balloon belly.

I poked her belly one night, and she flinched, drawing back as if she was going to hit me. “Am I going to have a baby brother or sister?” I asked. I was maybe a little excited. Yes, they would get the attention—but I liked the idea of having someone else to push around.

I could make my little brother or sister my own personal servant. They would fetch all my toys! Mwahahahahaha!

When I told Mommy this, she just stared at me with eyes that confused me. Mommy wasn't supposed to look at me like I was a stranger. Her hair was like straw, her skin pale, almost translucent.

“Sweetie,” Mommy said, before she collapsed. “I don't feel good.”

Kneeling next to her, I could feel the warm red seeping onto the carpet and staining my hands. Daddy drove her to the hospital, and I waited, kicking my legs, for my little brother or sister.

They were early, too! Which was even better!

Daddy came to see me and gave me a big hug.

“Mommy’s gone away for a while,” he whispered. “But… she gave you a beautiful baby brother!” Daddy was crying—and he didn't stop—even when he held my baby brother in his arms.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Meet Baby Roman.”

But the problem is, Roman doesn't talk to me. Even now.

He just hangs there. My baby brother, a bag of bright red fluid.

Daddy smiles. He holds Roman, but he doesn't hold me.

“At least he's alive,” Daddy says. “I'm so glad your brother is alive.”