I always longed to be the kind of girl who didn’t need anyone’s approval, but I wasn’t. I ached for her validation. While Khloe withered away, I tried to earn affection by excelling. I brought home flawless report cards, scrubbed the house until it gleamed, and won every science fair ribbon. But it was never the right currency. She’d wave a hand at my trophies, scoffing, “Imagine if you put all that energy toward something useful—like fixing your diet.”
Deep down, I knew it was twisted. But whenever I confided in relatives, they brushed me off. “Your mother looks incredible for her age. You should follow her advice.” Slowly, I started believing them, convincing myself our life was normal.
That illusion shattered when I was 13. I came home to find Khloe collapsed in the hallway, an empty bottle of Mom’s prescription diet pills at her side. My fingers shook as I called 911, sobbing through the words. I tried to roll her into the recovery position, fumbling through panic. As I leaned close, I heard her whisper through bluish lips: “I just wanted to lose five more pounds for Mom’s birthday.” Later, in a hospital bed surrounded by tubes, her first question was, “Do I look thinner?” That was the day I realized I had truly lost my sister—to our mother’s obsession.
After Khloe’s overdose, I learned survival meant playing by the rules. I skipped meals, the hollow ache becoming familiar. I sucked in my stomach whenever Mom was near, a reflex against her rage. Our house was silent, clinical—a stage where every move was a performance.
Then, when I was 15, Dad came back. He had spent most of my childhood overseas, little more than a distant voice on the phone. But when he saw what our lives had become, he acted immediately. He filed for divorce and custody. Mom fought viciously, but medical records—Khloe’s malnutrition, my own symptoms—spoke louder than she ever could.
I moved in with Dad. Little by little, I relearned how to eat. Food wasn’t punishment or reward—it was simply food. Khloe, when asked by the court, chose Mom. Her loyalty, born of fear and conditioning, still tethered her.
By senior year, I was healthy. I played volleyball, ate pizza with friends, and didn’t feel guilty. I was free.
At 18, I hadn’t seen Mom or Khloe in three years. Dad gently asked if I’d consider spending my birthday with them. I agreed, naively believing time had changed things. I wore baggy clothes, bracing for the comments. But when the door opened, nothing could have prepared me.
Khloe stood there, a ghost of herself. Her cheekbones jutted like blades, her skin was paper-thin, and wisps of hair clung to her scalp. “Khloe… oh my god, what happened?” I stammered. She cut me off, her voice brittle: “You’ve gotten huge.”
My chest cracked. Before I could respond, Mom appeared, her eyes crawling over my body with disgust. “What have you done to yourself?” she screeched, clawing at my stomach. “You were finally improving—and now look at you. You’re repulsive.”
I turned to leave, but Mom blocked the exit. “You’re not leaving until you drink this,” she hissed, yanking out an old meal replacement shake. “Two hundred calories. You need to get back on track.”
I refused. The bottle looked ancient, the label faded. She lunged, trying to shove it at me. The stench hit first—rancid, sour, spoiled. I screamed for her to stop, but she barked at Khloe, who grabbed my arms with wiry strength. As I thrashed, Mom forced the rotten liquid toward my mouth, chanting, “This is for your own good!” The foul mess spilled down my face and clothes.
I tore free and bolted to the bathroom, vomiting as I locked the door. I called Dad with shaking hands. Through the door, I heard her screaming, accusing me of choosing ugliness, of rejecting everything she’d taught me.
Dad called the police and rushed over. When officers arrived, they saw Khloe’s skeletal body and immediately called paramedics. As they lifted her onto a stretcher, she gripped my hand with surprising strength and whispered, “She made me take laxatives this morning too.”
Outside, Mom performed for the neighbors, shrieking about her rights. I climbed into the ambulance beside Khloe. An EMT checked her vitals, his face grim. The monitor beeped slowly—her heart barely beating. He muttered her weight under his breath: 78 pounds.
At the hospital, chaos unfolded. Mom stormed in, waving papers. “I have medical power of attorney! I decide everything!” But Dad was ready. He appeared with his own documents. “Actually, Diane—you don’t. Judge Martinez signed an emergency change this morning.” Mom’s face drained white, then flushed with fury.
As Khloe was rushed inside, a social worker named Sarah intercepted me. Clipboard in hand, she asked, “You’re the sister who called 911? Why haven’t you contacted Khloe in three years? Why did you abandon her?”
Her question cut deep. Before I could explain, Mom pounced. “She left us! She chose her father over her sick sister—and now she’s here for attention!” I caught the intake nurse typing: Sister has anger issues, per mother. Mom was already poisoning the narrative.
Through the glass, Khloe’s heart monitor blared as she went into arrhythmia. Doctors swarmed her. Dad’s lawyer arrived, but his face was dark. “She’s been recording you.” Mom smirked, playing an edited clip: “…hate you enough to hurt you…” Context erased.
Mom’s lies snowballed. Old texts, social media posts—she weaponized everything. Soon, I was barred from visiting Khloe, painted as a toxic influence. Even my college placed me on probation. Dad’s clients canceled contracts. Her poison spread everywhere.
Desperate, I contacted Anne, Mom’s estranged sister. On a video call, she revealed their own abusive upbringing—diet pills, toxic competitions, inherited cruelty. “She learned all of it from our mother,” Anne confessed.
I tried to gather proof, recording Mom outside the hospital. But she spotted my phone and flipped the script—crying, clutching her chest, accusing me of harassment as bystanders filmed. Hours later, a restraining order was filed against me.
Hope flickered when Sarah, the social worker, reached out privately. She slid a folder toward me. “I shouldn’t be showing you this… but something isn’t right.” Inside were multiple intake forms, all signed by Mom, each with different weights and histories. “She’s testing the system—seeing what story sticks.” Sarah also showed receipts of lavish gifts Mom showered on staff, buying their loyalty.
That night, I found our old shared email account. In the drafts was a new note from Khloe: I know you’re trying to help. I remember you saved me once. Mom says they’re vitamins, but they make me sick. Please don’t give up. Before I could reply, I was logged out. Password changed. Mom had found it.
Then a nurse named Jake reached out. Terrified but determined, he showed me photos of Khloe’s medication chart—doses far too high. He’d seen Mom slip crushed pills into her drinks. “She’s planning to transfer Khloe to a ‘clinic’ in Arizona,” he whispered. The address was an empty desert.
At the emergency hearing, it seemed hopeless. The judge leaned on Mom’s evidence—my supposed violations, her edited recordings. Just as the gavel was about to fall, Sarah burst into the courtroom with security footage. It showed Mom at night, crushing pills and slipping them into Khloe’s feeding tube.
The room erupted. Mom screamed, “I’m saving her! She’ll get fat without them!” The judge’s voice cut like steel: “Bailiff—take her into custody.”
The restraining order was dropped. Dad got emergency custody. At the hospital, we learned Mom’s “vitamins” were banned stimulants, diuretics, and laxatives.
Police raided her house, uncovering hidden stockpiles of expired diet drugs. Her supporters crumbled. Her lawyer resigned. Months later, she pled guilty to child endangerment and assault. Minimum eight years. No trial.
We didn’t attend sentencing. Instead, we sat with Khloe, playing a board game. On the news, her statement played—cold, unapologetic. She claimed the world would thank her one day for saving her daughters from obesity.
Recovery isn’t linear. Khloe has good days and bad. Some days she eats willingly. Others, Mom’s voice still haunts her. Dad and I are in therapy, facing our own scars.
Three months into treatment, in a family therapy session, Khloe looked at me, her gaze clear for the first time. “I knew the pills were killing me,” she said quietly. “But I kept taking them. Because at least when I was dying… she noticed me.”
We cried for the girls we once were, for the sister I nearly lost, and for the long road ahead. The war with our mother was over. But the battle to reclaim ourselves had only just begun.
