My Sick Cousin
For as long as I can remember, I've known there's someone in this family who's more important than me—my cousin Yolanda.
Yolanda is two months younger than me. Her mom, my aunt Linda Carter, died trying to save my mom, Tina Lewis.
That year, kidnappers cornered my mom at the end of the old alley, holding a knife to her neck demanding ransom. My aunt rushed over, threw herself onto the kidnapper, and was ultimately assaulted and killed. Her body was found beside a trash bin at the alley's end.
On the day my aunt was buried, Yolanda held her photo and didn't speak a word all day.
The doctor said she was so deeply traumatized that she developed autism and might never speak again.
My mom knelt at my aunt's grave, crying, promising to raise Yolanda Carter as her own daughter and never to treat her unfairly in her life.
From that day on, Yolanda moved into our home and became, quite officially, the "little princess" of the family.
When I was six, I was chasing butterflies in the yard, slipped, and fell onto the blue brick ground. My knee was badly scraped, blood mixed with dirt running down my leg, and it hurt so much I couldn't stop crying.
I bit my lip and crawled back inside, hoping for a hug from my mom—or at least a word of comfort.
But my mom had just come out of the kitchen, still holding the milk she'd warmed for Yolanda, and when she saw me crying, her first reaction was to frown: "Nina, stop bawling, what if you disturb Yolanda's sleep?"
She set the milk down on the coffee table, then slowly pulled some antiseptic out of the drawer. She dabbed it on my wound with a cotton swab, making me wince in pain. She scolded me for being too delicate: "It's no big deal, just tough it out. You have to set an example for Yolanda."
That afternoon, Yolanda was playing with building blocks in the living room and accidentally knocked over the container, scattering the blocks all over the floor.
She looked at my mom with red eyes, neither crying nor speaking.
My mom quickly ran over, knelt down, and pulled Yolanda into her arms, soothing her softly: "Yolanda, don't be afraid, I will take care of it, it's not your fault, our Yolanda is still so young."
I sat on the sofa, staring at the blood seeping through the bandage on my knee, suddenly feeling that the pain was nothing compared to the chill inside my heart.
When Yolanda was eight, I'd saved up my allowance for half a year and bought a pink piggy bank, hoping to save enough to buy Grandma a massager—Grandma suffered from rheumatism, and every winter the pain kept her awake.
That day, after school, when I got home, I saw Yolanda sitting on the floor, holding my piggy bank. Its opening was cracked, and coins were scattered all over the place. She was even stomping on them.
I rushed over, pulled her away, and picked up the piggy bank from the floor. Tears instantly started falling: "This was the money I saved to buy Grandma a massager! How could you break it?"
Yolanda shrank back from my yelling, her eyes red and puffy, head down, not saying a word.
My mom came in from the balcony, saw what was happening, pulled Yolanda behind her, and then snapped at me: "Nina! Why are you yelling at Yolanda? She has autism; she doesn't understand anything."
I pointed at the coin on the floor, crying, "She gets it! She knows this is my piggy bank!"
My dad, Gavin Scott, also came out of the study to back up my mom: "Nina, Yolanda is just expressing her emotions; that's a good sign. It means she's improving. You need to cut her some slack."
In the end, my mom gave Yolanda Carter fifty to buy snacks from the corner store downstairs, while I knelt on the floor, picking up those dusty coins one by one and dropping them back into the cracked piggy bank.
That night, I hugged the piggy bank under the covers and cried, sobbing well into the night, my eyes swollen like walnuts.
When I was in fifth grade, I received the "Three Good Student" award. The teacher said it was recognition of all my hard work that semester. Holding the award, I ran straight home, eager to be the first to tell my parents.
I opened the door and saw Yolanda Carter sitting at my desk, scissors in hand, carefully cutting the edges of my award.
"Yolanda! What are you doing?" I rushed over to grab the award, but it was too late. The award was in tatters, the edges all snipped off. "This is my Three Good Student award! How could you cut it up like this!"
Yolanda threw the scissors down, sat on the floor hugging her knees, her head buried in her chest, looking hurt and wronged.
My mom heard the noise and came out of the bedroom. Seeing the shattered certificate on the floor, then glancing at Yolanda curled up on the ground, she sighed, "Nina, don't take it too seriously with Yolanda. She's resisting, which means she's developing a sense of self—that's a good thing."
My dad added, "Exactly, it's just a certificate. You'll get another one next time. Don't upset Yolanda."
That night, I picked up the pieces of the certificate one by one, glued them onto a piece of cardboard, and tucked it into the bottom drawer of my desk.
Looking at those crooked glue marks, for the first time I felt like maybe no one in this family really cares about me.
During the summer after seventh grade, Yolanda Carter and I were playing in the neighborhood playground.
I was sitting on the swing, swinging happily, when Yolanda suddenly came up behind me and shoved me hard.
The swing went too high, I lost my grip, fell off, hit the back of my head on the concrete, and everything went black as I passed out.
When I woke up, I was already in a hospital bed, with three stitches in the back of my head. The pain kept me from turning my head.
My mom sat by the bed, peeling an apple, but it wasn't for me—she cut the peeled apple into small pieces, put them into a container, and said she needed to take them back to Yolanda: "Yolanda's home alone and afraid of the dark; I have to get back quickly."
My dad stood at the hospital ward door, frowning as he said to me, "Nina, how can you be so careless? Don't you know to hold on tight when you're on the swing? Because of you, we wasted time, and Yolanda is home alone with no one to keep her company—poor thing."
I opened my mouth, wanting to explain that Yolanda had pushed me, but the words caught in my throat and I swallowed them back.
I know, even if I say it, they won't believe me. They'll just think I'm making excuses.
Since then, I started trying to be more "mature."
When Yolanda Carter snatched my homework book, I just let her take it; at worst, I'd stay up late to rewrite it.
When Yolanda Carter scribbled all over my textbook, I'd use correction fluid to cover it little by little, then rewrite my notes.
When Yolanda Carter purposely soaked the clothes I left on the balcony, I'd wash them again and secretly hang them back out after she'd fallen asleep.
I always thought that if I did well enough, one day my parents would notice me and love me as much as they loved Yolanda.
Thinking back now, I was really pitifully stupid at the time.
What truly crushed me was what happened last Saturday.
That afternoon, my mom took Yolanda downstairs to buy fruit and asked me to tidy up the walk-in closet—Yolanda's clothes were always tossed all over the floor, and it was always me who had to clean up.
The moment I opened the wardrobe door, I heard humming coming from inside the walk-in closet.
The tune was so familiar—it was "A Little Happiness," the song all the girls in my class have been singing lately, and it was surprisingly on pitch, nothing like what you'd expect from a kid with autism.
My heart skipped a beat, and I quietly took two steps inside. I saw Yolanda Carter holding my pink dress, standing in front of the mirror, comparing herself, humming a tune with a smug smile on her face.
"This dress is really beautiful. It's such a shame that rustic Nina Scott is the one wearing it."
She made a funny face at the mirror, her voice bright, "My aunt and uncle are really stupid. They actually believe I have autism. They treat me like a treasure every day, give me everything. Nina is just a poor little nobody that nobody wants."
I stood behind the door, chills running through me, clutching the corner of the dress until it was crumpled in my hand.
I suddenly remembered that Yolanda Carter used to secretly watch cartoons when no one was around, even talking along with the characters. But every time the parents came in, she'd instantly shut up and turn back into that quiet, withdrawn version of herself.
It turns out she wasn't actually autistic—she was just pretending to be sick!
I quickly pulled my old cell phone out of my pocket—that one my dad had discarded, but I kept it to take pictures of test mistakes.
I switched to flashlight mode and quietly placed the phone in a pile of sweaters, pressing the record button.
The phone screen lit up briefly, then went dark. I held my breath, listening as Yolanda kept humming and going on about me behind my back.
"Nina still wants to compete with me for our parents? What a joke. My aunt saved my mom's life; she owes me for life. Nina is just unnecessary."
"Last time I pushed her off the swing, she didn't even dare to tell my aunt. What a coward. Next time, I'll find something fun to tease her with."
The recording lasted about ten minutes. Yolanda heard my mom's voice at the door, quickly threw the dress back into the wardrobe, and hurried out, reverting to that timid girl.
I waited until Yolanda left before I dared to take my cell phone out from the pile of sweaters. My hand holding the phone kept trembling.
The recording on the cell phone was undeniable proof that Yolanda Carter was faking her illness.
I sat on the floor of the walk-in closet, staring at the cell phone screen, my mind a tangled mess.
I wanted to play the recording for my parents right away, to show them Yolanda's true face, to make them see all the pain I've silently carried these years.
But then I hesitated—if my mom found out she'd been fooled by Yolanda all this time, would she break down? Would this family fall apart?
Because of that fleeting moment of weakness, I slipped the phone deep into my backpack's innermost pocket, thinking I'd wait for the right moment.
I never imagined that this decision would take away my chance to ever speak the truth again.
This Saturday, my mom said Yolanda's been in a good mood lately and wants to take her to the Amusement Park, and asked me to join, "to keep Yolanda company."
I didn't want to go at first—I was born with heart disease and can't go on the thrilling rides, so I'd just be watching.
But my dad said, 'Nina, Yolanda wants to go, so you should go with her. Don't spoil her fun.'
I had no choice but to nod in agreement. Before heading out, I put my emergency medicine into my small bag, but worried it was too heavy, so I handed the medicine to my mom and said, 'Mom, can you carry this for me? My bag is a bit heavy.'
My mom took the medicine and casually tossed it into her handbag, not making a big deal out of it: "You're not riding any thrilling rides, why bring medicine? Just making a fuss."
When we arrived at the amusement park, Yolanda grabbed my mom's hand and pointed at the Drop Tower far away, her eyes shining.
My mom instantly got what she meant, crouching down to coax her: "Yolanda wants to ride the Drop Tower? Auntie will go with you, alright?"
Yolanda shook her head and pointed at me.
My chest tightened, and I hurriedly said, "Mom, I can't ride the Drop Tower. I have heart disease, and the doctor said I shouldn't go on such intense rides."
My mom frowned, "Nina, just once. Yolanda wants to watch, so what's wrong with you playing with her?"
"But I..." I tried to explain, but my dad was already pushing me toward the Drop Tower. "Stop stalling, Yolanda's been waiting impatiently. Just be careful, don't be so delicate."
They pushed me under the Drop Tower, and the staff asked if I had heart disease. I was about to nod when my mom quickly chimed in, "No, she's just timid, trying to scare people."
The staff, half convinced, let me get on the Drop Tower.
When the machine started, I gripped the handrail tightly, my heart pounding as if it might burst, with nothing but the sound of wind and screams in my ears.
I looked down at Yolanda Carter; she was standing beside my mom, actually smiling—smiling so happily, completely free from her usual shyness.
I cried my heart out, tears mixing with the wind as they stung my face painfully.
But down below, my parents only watched Yolanda Carter, paying no attention to my cries.
After getting off the Drop Tower, my legs went weak. I leaned on the railing and stood there for a long time before I could steady myself.
My mom didn't come over to help me; instead, she grabbed Yolanda and asked what else she wanted to play.
Yolanda pointed at the roller coaster nearby and once again motioned toward me.
"Mom, I really can't ride the roller coaster—my heart feels terrible."I clutched my chest, my voice trembling.
"How can you be so thoughtless?"My dad came over and pulled me along. "Yolanda's hardly ever this happy. Just play with her once; don't kill the mood."
They dragged me over to the roller coaster, and this time, I didn't even have the strength to resist.
When the roller coaster started, I felt like a hand was gripping my heart, the pain almost making me pass out.
I closed my eyes, my mind filled with Yolanda's smile just moments ago and my parents' cold indifference.
Right then, I should have known that, in their eyes, I was never important.
After the roller coaster ride, Yolanda pointed toward the bungee platform far away.
The bungee platform was hundreds of meters high; standing underneath and looking up made my head spin.
I grabbed my mom's arm, begging, "Mom, I really can't do bungee jumping—I'd die. Please, don't make me go."
But my mom pushed my hand away. "Nina, why are you so disobedient? Yolanda just wants you to keep her company. How can you be so selfish?"
Yolanda Carter came over, grabbed my hand, and started walking toward the bungee platform.
Her hand was cold, but her grip was strong—I couldn't break free.
When we reached the top of the bungee platform, the wind hit my face like blades. I clung to the railing, my heart pounding faster and faster, my chest tightening until I could hardly breathe.
I wanted to take my cell phone out of my backpack, play the recording for my parents, tell them Yolanda was faking being sick, make them save me.
But before I could unzip my backpack, Yolanda suddenly reached out and, with all her strength, pushed me off the platform.
"Ah——" I screamed as I fell, the wind roaring past my ears, my body like a kite cut loose, the weightlessness almost suffocating me.
When the rope yanked me, a sharp pain shot through my waist; I bounced dozens of times in midair, then everything went black and I lost consciousness.
When I woke, I was already lying on the meadow beneath the bungee platform.
My parents were gathered around Yolanda Carter. My mom was crouching on the ground, asking, "Yolanda, are you okay? Were you scared?"
Yolanda shook her head, then suddenly said two words: "Aunt, play..."
My mom's eyes suddenly lit up as she grabbed Yolanda Carter's hand, her voice trembling, "Yolanda! You spoke! You finally spoke!"
My dad was just as overwhelmed, pulling out his cell phone to take a picture of Yolanda: "Heaven has eyes! Sis, are you watching from above? Yolanda's okay! She can talk now!"
The two of them circled around Yolanda, crying and laughing, completely ignoring me lying on the floor.
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