The Wrong Daughter

In our family, there's a tradition. Every newborn gets a baby blanket, hand-knitted by one of the older women. My sister Willow and I got pregnant at the same time. Mom spent three months picking out the softest cashmere yarn. She even asked me—fawn pattern, or clouds. I was naive enough to think that this time, I was finally the favorite. Then my due date got close. Mom showed up at the hospital holding the finished blanket. Willow threw herself into Mom's arms, glowing. Our brother unfolded the corner of the blanket, grinning. One blanket. Right in the center, embroidered with the initials of Willow's baby. My hand went to my belly. My voice came out quiet. "Mom. Where's mine?" Mom looked away. "I wanted to give Willow's child a double blessing. So I used the money you'd set aside for yours too." Our brother cut me off with a scowl. "Can you lay off Willow for one damn second?" Dad walked in. He picked up the private-room card from my nightstand. Slipped it into his pocket. "You don't need this. Willow does. She's having a C-section. She's suffering." So they did know childbirth hurts. They knew being a mother was dangerous. They just decided Willow's fear was worth the whole family camping out at the hospital. My fear? I could choke on it alone. Willow held the blanket close. The blanket stitched with two blessings. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Vanessa. You're not going to fight me over a baby blessing, are you?" I stared at the dense, tight stitches on the blanket. And suddenly, I wasn't sad anymore. That blanket could be a foot thick. It still wouldn't keep someone warm. Not someone they'd shoved out the door a long time ago.