Blurb：
Mia’s life shattered at six when her mother Sarah was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Her father and brother Alex transformed from doting family members into enablers of Sarah’s violent episodes. On Mia’s fifteenth birthday, her terminal leukemia diagnosis gets crumpled and discarded by her father who prioritizes Sarah’s fragile mental state. Witness Mia’s tragic journey as she endures physical abuse, hair tearing, and emotional neglect while battling leukemia in silence. This powerful story explores family dynamics, parental favoritism, and the devastating consequences of untreated mental illness. Perfect for readers who enjoy emotional family dramas about complex mother-daughter relationships and medical tragedies.
Content：
When I was six years old, my mom suddenly got sick.
A doctor told us she had bipolar disorder and couldn’t be stressed.
Dad patted my head and whispered, “Be good, Mia. Mom’s sick—we have to be patient with her.”
I bit my lip and nodded quietly.
From that day on, Mom became the center of our family.
I was no longer the little princess everyone doted on.
……
On my fifteenth birthday, my medical report read “terminal leukemia.”
I brought it home, hoping to tell Dad this sad truth.
But he frowned at me and snapped, “Where have you been running off to? You should be here looking after your mother!”
I pulled the report from my pocket, but before I could hand it over, he snatched it, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash.
“Don’t bring this nonsense around—you’ll upset your mother!”
Upset her… again.
I stared into that trash can—at my ‘death sentence’ lying inside.
But no one cared.
Mom tore at my scalp until my hair fell off.
Blood dripped down.
“You little brat! You wore that dress just to provoke me!”
That’s what she always called me when she had an episode.
Even though I was her own daughter.
“Why would you wear a dress to upset Mom on purpose?” my brother shouted.
Bang!
A sharp pain exploded in the back of my head.
I collapsed.
Dad had thrown a ashtray at me.
He rushed to Mom’s side, throwing his coat over her shoulders. “Are you okay, Sarah?”
All he saw were her tearful, reddened eyes—not the blood pouring from my head.
Mom pointed at me, putting on a pitiful expression.
“I didn’t mean to… I just lost my temper.”
She covered her face and sobbed.
Dad held her tightly and kicked me in the belly hard.
“It’s alright! It’s not your fault! It’s Mia’s!”
I clawed at the wall, trying to stand—my nails broke against the plaster.
“Dad… Alex…”
The words barely made it out of my throat.
No surprise—they didn’t hear me.
My brother stepped on my hand as he passed, fussing over Mom with soothing words.
His voice was so gentle.
But before I turned six, they used to comfort me like that too.
Dad would read me stories and check on me late at night.
Alex always saved the best candy for me.
They treated me like I was everything—they bought me pretty dresses in every color because I loved them.
But after Mom got sick, everything changed.
She burned my dresses and cut my hair when no one was looking.
I cried to Dad about it.
But the doctor said Mom was sick—she couldn’t handle stress.
From then on, I became the problem.
I was losing too much blood.
My vision started to dim.
“Dad… look at me…”
He heard, but only glanced over.
“Stop pretending. Get up and apologize to your mother!”
Mom cried even harder.
“It’s my fault! I’ll kneel and say I’m sorry!”
She dropped to the floor and banged her head again and again.
Dad panicked.
“Take her away! Now! Before she makes it worse!”
Alex dragged me upstairs, yelling, “Why do you always have to set her off? If anything happens to Mom, I’ll never ever forgive you!”
He didn’t see the trail of blood behind me.
He didn’t see my white dress soaked red.
I wanted to tell him I was dying.
That if I didn’t wear a dress today, I’d might never get another chance.
But I couldn’t speak.
Terminal leukemia.
The doctor said I had three months left.
But Dad threw the diagnosis away like a bad report card.
They thought I was lying—just seeking for attention.
My lips trembled.
I swallowed the words “leukemia” and stayed silent.
Alex dumped me on the stairs.
My head hit the wall again.
The bleeding got worse.
“You’re not dead, are you? Stay here till Mom calms down.”
Then I heard Dad on the phone,“Hey, Laura? Sarah’s had another episode. Can you come over?”
He even yelled upstairs, “Mia! Bring your mom a jacket!”
I lay on the floor, gasping.
I couldn’t answer.
Dad came up himself.
He kicked me aside as he passed.
“Too lazy to help your own mother. All you do is cause trouble.”
With the last of my strength, I reached for his pant.
Blood dripped from my face.
But he shook me off.
“Get away! Think about how you’re gonna apologize!”
I slumped back into the corner like a broken doll.
All I heard was “apologize.”
When I was fifteen, I took part in a school play.
The teacher did my makeup—I didn’t have time to wipe it off before I got home.
Mom threw ice water on me.
It was freezing outside—snowing.
My heart felt like ice.
She made the housekeeper hold me down and scrubbed my face with a broom, screaming, “You trash! Trying to look grown! Trying to seduce people!”
The more I denied it, the harder she scrubbed—then she started hitting me.
I lay on the floor begging, “Mom! Stop! I won’t do it again!”
When Alex came home, she started sobbing.
“If Mia hadn’t worn makeup, I wouldn’t have lost my temper… It’s all my fault!”
Once again, I was the one who’d triggered her.
Dad left pills by my bed and said coldly, “When you’re done crying, come out and apologize. She hurt her hands while hitting you.”
That’s when I finally understood.
This house was a safe harbor for Mom—but for me, it was a prison.
I closed my eyes.
I could feel my life slipping away.
When I woke up again, Dr. Laura was in the living room with a medical team.
I remembered her—she’d treated Mom last year.
I overheard them talking:
“I brought the medication. Same as before.”
Mom hesitated. “Are there… side effects?”
“Real medication has side effects. This doesn’t. You’re safe. John won’t find out.”
I’d always wondered—what was Mom really taking?
Was she even sick at all?
Mom started crying again, falling into Dad’s arms. “I didn’t mean to… I wouldn’t have hit her if she hadn’t worn that dress…”
She cried and slapped her own face.
Dad held her tenderly.
“Mia’s a bad kid! She deserved it!”
Dr. Laura chimed in, “Exactly! Bad children need discipline!”
Then she noticed the blood on the floor.
She froze. “Why is there blood here?”
Everyone turned toward the corner.
There was a drying pool of blood and drag marks.
Dad frowned.
Alex cut in, “It’s not blood. The cat knocked over ketchup.”
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