Chapter 2

My name is Lily. Lily Miller.

The doctor said I have severe, generalized eczema. It's a skin condition that's almost impossible to cure.

When the itching starts, it feels like a million fire ants are eating through my bones.

I can't stop scratching.

I scratch until it bleeds, it oozes yellow fluid, it scabs over, and then I scratch it open again.

My skin has become thick, leathery, and covered in deep, bloody cracks.

Mom hated my skin more than anything.

She has severe OCD. Mysophobia, to be exact.

The sofa covers, sheets, and curtains had to be washed and steam-sanitized every single week.

Every object in the house had to be in its exact spot. Not even a millimeter off.

I was the only mold, the only contaminant in her perfect world.

She never touched me.

When she handed me things, she would throw them from a distance.

If a drop of my blood or fluid accidentally touched the furniture, she would immediately put on rubber gloves, scrub the spot with alcohol wipes over and over, and then spray half a bottle of disinfectant. All while muttering about how disgusting I was.

So, when I brought her that box of Clorox, smiling and wishing her a happy birthday, I was actually terrified.

She froze for a second, her brows knitting together.

She looked at my arms holding the box. Pale yellow fluid was oozing out, sticking my sleeves to my raw skin.

"Get away! Don't touch my gift with your filthy hands!"

The kick was hard. The box flew, the bottles broke, and bleach splashed all over me.

I sat on the floor, stunned. The wet fabric of my dress pressed against the open sores on my legs, sending a blinding, burning pain through my body.

But I didn't cry.

Because Mom looked like she was in even more pain than I was.

She stared at the mess on the floor, her chest heaving.

"Lily, you ruined my hardwood floor!"

She rushed to the cleaning closet, grabbed a new mop, rags, and a bucket of water.

She got down on her knees, scrubbing the glass shards and liquid over and over.

I curled up in the corner, watching her frantic back, and whispered, "I'm sorry, Mom..."

She spent the whole afternoon cleaning.

First, she picked up every tiny piece of glass with a cloth.

Then, she mopped the floor dozens of times until only the sharp scent of lemon Pine-Sol remained.

Finally, she took off her rubber gloves, picked up my ruined dress along with the wet box, and threw them into the trash can outside.

She didn't look at me once.

That evening, Dad came back from a business trip.

He carried a large, beautiful cake box. The moment he walked in, he smiled.

"Lily, happy birthday! Look what I got you!"

Mom walked out of the kitchen, her face dark.

"What birthday? Look at what your precious daughter did today!"

She pointed at a tiny, barely visible spot on the floor near the corner, slightly bleached by the Clorox.

"She ruined my house!"

Dad looked at the floor, then at me.

I was in my pajamas, barefoot, smelling faintly of bleach.

Dad sighed, walked over, and reached out to pat my head.

Mom shrieked instantly.

"Richard! Don't touch her! She was oozing pus again this afternoon! She's filthy!"

Dad's hand froze in mid-air.

He pulled a stack of cash from his wallet and handed it to Mom.

"Clara, stop. Lily didn't do it on purpose. I'll hire someone to replace the floorboards, okay?"

Mom took the cash, her expression softening slightly.

"Fine."

She turned back to the kitchen and brought out three plates.

"No cake tonight. It's full of sugar and dairy. Unhealthy. Eat this."

It was plain, unseasoned chicken breast and boiled broccoli.

This was our standard dinner.

Mom insisted that restaurant food was filthy. Everything in our house had to be simple and sterile.

Dad looked at me, his eyes full of heartbreak.

"Lily, I bought you that doll you wanted so badly."

He pushed a beautifully wrapped box toward me.

I stared at the gorgeous doll, but I didn't dare reach out.

I looked up at Mom.

Mom said coldly, "Stuffed toys collect dust and dust mites. It's not going in your bedroom. It stays in the living room cabinet."

"And," she glared at me, "before you touch it, you wash your hands three times with the antibacterial soap."

My hands couldn't handle soap.

The doctor had warned us that my skin barrier was completely destroyed. Any harsh soap would make it worse.

I lowered my head and whispered, "I don't want it, Dad."

Dad's face tightened. "Clara, can you be reasonable for once? It's her birthday!"

"I am being reasonable!" Mom's voice spiked. "Richard, if I didn't keep this house spotless, we'd be living in a dump! Your daughter's disease is because she's dirty! If she was as clean as me, she would've been cured long ago!"

This was what I had heard my entire life.

The doctors said my eczema was genetic, an immune system issue.

But Mom was convinced it was because I was dirty.

Dad looked like he wanted to argue, but he looked at me and swallowed his words.

Silently, he put the doll back into the bag.

My birthday dinner ended just like that.

That night, I lay in bed, the itching absolutely agonizing.

I didn't dare scratch. If I bled and ruined the sheets, Mom would lose her mind.

I dug my fingernails deep into my palms, using a different kind of pain to distract myself.

Just when I couldn't take it anymore, my door creaked open.

Dad walked in.

He held a tube of ointment—the new one the doctor prescribed today.

"Lily, let me put some cream on you."

He sat on the edge of my bed and unscrewed the cap.

I immediately shrank back, shaking my head in terror.

"No, Dad, we can't."

"Why not?"

"Mom will be mad... The ointment is greasy. It'll stain the sheets."

Dad's eyes welled with tears.

Looking at my skin, a patchwork of old scars and raw wounds, his voice cracked.

"Oh, sweetie... you're sick. You need the medicine. If the sheets get dirty, I'll wash them."

"It won't work," I whispered. "Mom will smell it."

Mom had a nose like a bloodhound.

Any unfamiliar scent would trigger her.

"Dad... am I really that dirty?"

Dad was silent for a long time. Then, with a raspy voice, he said, "You are not dirty, Lily. You are my beautiful, perfect little princess."

He pulled me into a tight hug.

His embrace was warm, smelling faintly of cologne and tobacco.

It was the only scent in this house that didn't smell like bleach.

I buried my face in his chest, and the tears I had held back all day finally poured out.

But I didn't dare make a sound.

I was too afraid Mom would hear.