I hate her. Not really, I guess. But I do. It’s midnight, maybe later. My parents are still in her room, whispering, cooing. They do it every night. Since she came home, it’s like I don’t exist. Before, abuela would say “mijo, you are the sun, you are the moon.” Now? Now I’m just… there. Like the furniture. She has a whole room full of things, expensive things. A crib that cost more than my first bike. Clothes from Italy. Toys that light up and sing in three languages. My room? Same poster from five years ago. Scuff marks on the wall. They don’t even see it. Every night it’s the same routine. Dinner, then straight to the nursery. “Shh, the baby needs quiet.” “Don’t run, you’ll wake the baby.” “Be gentle, she’s so delicate.” I try to talk to them, tell them about school, about the new game. They just nod, their eyes already drifting to the baby monitor. Or they’ll just say, "Later, later, mijo," in that dismissive way. Like my life, my day, my thoughts are just an inconvenience. Un estorbo. They used to ask. They used to listen. Now it’s all about her, her schedule, her feeding, her sleep. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I feel like a ghost in my own house. I go to bed, and I can hear their soft voices through the wall, still with her. And I think about all the things they bought, all the time they spend. For her. She doesn’t even know what’s going on. She just cries and sleeps and eats. And they act like she’s a miracle. I was a miracle too, once. Or at least, that’s what they told me. I guess miracles have an expiration date.