The bottle was empty again. I stared at the orange prescription container, my hands trembling. Not from anger, but from the familiar warning signs: the tingling in my fingers, the strange taste in my mouth, the slight disconnect between what my eyes saw and what my brain processed. I’d refilled this prescription just five days ago. Sixty pills. Now, nothing but air and my sister’s perfume lingering near my dresser.
“Victoria,” I called out, already knowing how this would go. “Where are my pills?”
She appeared in my doorway, leaning against the frame with practiced nonchalance. At 27, two years older than me, she still acted like we were teenagers. “What pills?”
“My Keppra! My anti-seizure medication. The pills that keep me from having grand mal seizures. Those pills.”
She rolled her eyes. “God, Natalie, you’re so dramatic about your ‘condition,’” she said, using air quotes as if my epilepsy was something I’d invented. “I had a headache. I took a couple.”
“A couple? The bottle is empty. That’s sixty pills, Victoria.”
“Sharing is caring,” my mother’s voice rang out from downstairs, sharp and dismissive. She appeared behind Victoria, her face set in disapproval. “Stop being so selfish, Natalie.”
“Selfish?” I gripped the empty bottle so hard the plastic cracked. “These aren’t Advil, Mom. They’re prescription anti-convulsants. Without them, I could—”
“Could what?” My father joined the party, his expression one of tired annoyance. “Have one of your ‘convenient’ episodes? Interesting how they always happen when you want attention.”
This had been my life since my epilepsy diagnosis at 16. What started as absence seizures had progressed to full tonic-clonic seizures by the time I was 20. The medication controlled them well, when I actually had access to it. But in the Porter family, my medical needs were seen as an inconvenience at best, manipulation at worst. Victoria had learned early that she could take my medication without consequences. She sold some to her friends and took others herself for the mild high they gave people without epilepsy. My parents enabled it, insisting I was being dramatic.
“I need to go to the pharmacy,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I need an emergency refill.”
“Your insurance won’t cover another refill this soon,” Mom said. “You’ll have to wait.”
“Or,” Dad added, “you could stop being so rigid. Missing a few doses won’t kill you.”
Except it could, literally. But they’d never listened to my neurologist’s warnings.
I retreated to my room and called Dr. Martinez’s office. Her nurse, Carmen, knew my family’s dynamic well. “Natalie, this is the fourth time this year. You need to file a police report.”
“They’re my family,” I said weakly.
“They’re endangering your life. But I know you won’t report them. I’ll call in an emergency supply to a different pharmacy. Pay cash. Keep them somewhere your sister can’t find them.”
I thanked her and hung up, then looked at my bank balance. $47. The medication would cost at least $200.
That night, I felt it building: the electrical storm in my brain that preceded a seizure. I lay in bed, muscles tense, trying to will it away. The aura, that strange feeling of impending doom, followed me like a shadow for three days. My coworkers noticed my trembling hands. My supervisor, James, pulled me aside. “Go home,” he said, his face dark with concern. “This isn’t safe. And Natalie, you need to do something about your family.”
But what could I do? I was 25, working retail, barely making enough to cover my expenses. Moving out meant choosing between rent and medication. Victoria had even made a twisted necklace out of my pills, drilling holes through the capsules and stringing them like beads. “Look,” she’d laughed at dinner, “I’m wearing Natalie’s drama.” My parents had laughed, too.
Then came the letter that changed everything. My grandmother, the only family member who’d ever believed my epilepsy was real, had passed away six months ago. The estate had finally been settled, and we were all required to appear in family court for the reading of the will.
“Grandma left everything to her four grandchildren equally,” Mom said. The estate was worth over $2 million. Split four ways, that was enough to change any of our lives.
The court date was set for the following Monday. I had no medication, no money for more, and no way to get through what would surely be a stressful day. I called Carmen again, begging for samples. “I’m sorry, Natalie,” she said. “Dr. Martinez is at a conference. I can’t authorize anything without her.” I was trapped.
Monday arrived with the worst aura I’d ever experienced. Colors seemed too bright, sounds too sharp. My hands shook as I dressed. “Stop making that face,” Mom snapped as we drove to the courthouse. “This is a happy occasion. Don’t ruin it with your attention-seeking.”
The courtroom was small and stuffy. We sat on uncomfortable benches while the judge, an older woman named Judge Chen, reviewed the paperwork.
“This is a straightforward distribution,” Judge Chen began. “Margaret Porter left her estate to be divided equally among her four grandchildren. However, there is one unusual stipulation.” She paused, studying a document. “Mrs. Porter specified that any grandchild who has committed a crime against another grandchild forfeits their share, which would then be redistributed among the remaining beneficiaries.”
Victoria scoffed. “Crime? We’re family. We don’t commit crimes against each other.”
That’s when I felt it. The electrical storm reached its peak. My vision tunneled. My muscles began to twitch. I tried to speak, to warn someone, but my jaw locked.
“Natalie, stop making faces,” Dad hissed.
The seizure hit full force. I fell forward, my body convulsing violently. My head struck the bench in front of us, and I heard screaming. The world became nothing but misfiring electrical impulses.
“Medical emergency!” Judge Chen’s voice cut through the chaos. “Call 911 immediately!”
I was vaguely aware of being lowered to the floor, of someone protecting my head. When the seizure finally ended, I was exhausted, confused, and humiliated. But I was also aware enough to hear Judge Chen’s voice, cold with fury.
“Who is responsible for this young woman’s medical care?”
“She’s an adult,” my mother said defensively. “She’s responsible for herself.”
“I see. And the pills around your other daughter’s neck. What medication is that?”
Silence.
“Bailiff, please collect that necklace as evidence. Officer Martinez, I want those pills tested immediately.”
Within an hour, as I lay in a hospital bed, the test results came back. The pills on Victoria’s necklace were indeed Keppra, my prescription medication.
Judge Chen visited me in the hospital, accompanied by a police detective. “Miss Porter,” she said gently, “the pills your sister was wearing match your prescription exactly. Your medical records show you’ve been hospitalized for seizures four times this year, each time after reporting your medication stolen. Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”
So, I told them everything. Years of stolen medication, of being called dramatic, of my parents enabling the theft.
“Theft of prescription medication is a felony,” the detective explained. “Especially medication that, if withheld, could result in death.”
“But more relevant to today’s proceedings,” Judge Chen added, “this constitutes a crime against another grandchild. The will’s stipulation is clear.”
The aftermath was swift. Victoria was arrested for theft of controlled substances and reckless endangerment. My parents, faced with the reality of my condition—witnessed by a judge, documented by paramedics—finally couldn’t deny the truth.
The inheritance ruling was decisive. Victoria’s quarter share was forfeited and redistributed among my cousins and me. My portion came to over $600,000. Enough to change everything.
“I’m sorry,” my mother said quietly when she visited me in the hospital. “We didn’t think you really needed every dose.”
“I could have died,” I said simply. She had no answer.
Victoria was convicted and sentenced to probation and community service. The felony conviction ended her plans of living off Grandma’s money. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone.
I used part of my inheritance to move into my own apartment, where my medication stays safely locked away. I see a new neurologist, who is helping me recover from the damage caused by years of inconsistent treatment. My seizures are more frequent now, a permanent consequence of my family’s neglect.
But I’m alive. I have resources, excellent insurance, and most importantly, control over my own medical care. I volunteer with an epilepsy support group, sharing my story with others whose conditions are dismissed by their families. “Never let anyone make you feel dramatic for needing life-saving medication,” I tell them. “Your health is not negotiable.”
Sometimes I think about that day in court, the terror of seizing in public. But then I remember Judge Chen’s face, the vindication of finally being believed, and the justice of consequences finally landing where they belonged. My grandmother, who’d slipped me money over the years for medication, had somehow known her will’s strange stipulation would protect me even after her death.
Now, every morning I take my pills, all of them, on schedule, without anyone calling me selfish. It shouldn’t be a luxury, but for me, it feels like freedom. And Victoria? She learned that sharing isn’t always caring.