I, Anna Gilbert, in the final stage of kidney failure, finally made up my mind to die.
Dr. Harrison refused to accept it. "The hospital just found a matching kidney. Pay $500,000, and you're cured." He leaned forward. "Talk to your family. One more time."
I thought of Mom bedridden, Dad hauling cement at construction sites. I shook my head.
I don't want to die.
But if saving this broken body means draining my family dry—I'd rather go.
Maybe after I'm gone, their lives can finally get a little easier…
After I died, I discovered that my "dirt-poor" parents owned luxury cars, a villa, and hundreds of millions in savings.
Eighteen years of grinding poverty was just one step in their "raise her poor" plan.
And it worked.
Poverty made me sensible. Inferiority made me obedient. I became the "perfect" daughter they'd always wanted.
They were waiting until after next month's college entrance exams to tell me everything—to finally let me live as the rich girl I was born to be.
But I died the night before dawn.
1.
On the eve of exams, the school arranged physicals.
The moment I saw my results, my world collapsed.
The report read: Complete renal failure. End-stage uremia.
Hands shaking, I searched treatment costs online. Hospital fees, surgery, post-op care—everything added up to over $500,000.
Panicked and lost, I took leave and went home.
In our crumbling one-room house, Dad was clumsily lighting the stove, reheating leftover scraps from the construction site. Mom sat in her wheelchair, snapping a painkiller in half before tilting her head back to swallow it dry.
Dad scolded her. "Last time you passed out from the pain because you shorted the dose. Why are you doing this again?"
Mom sighed and pulled a crumpled notebook from her pocket. "A bottle costs dozens of dollars. Every bit we save matters." She smoothed the worn pages. "Anna's exams are coming. Even if I have to scrape it from between my teeth, I'll get her tuition."
The scene scalded my throat like molten iron.
The confession I'd planned to make died in my chest.
I stood in the doorway until my tears stopped. Then I walked in.
"Dad. Mom. I'm home."
Mom quickly hid the painkillers behind her back. When she looked up and saw me, a flicker of joy crossed her sallow face. "Anna! Senior year is so busy—how did you find time to visit?"
I shoved the crumpled diagnosis deeper into my pocket and forced a smile. "I missed home. Asked my teacher for leave."
Dad didn't scold me for being impulsive. He pulled two eggs from the cabinet—eggs he'd been saving—and steamed my favorite egg custard.
I kept my head low while I ate, letting my bangs hide the tear tracks on my cheeks.
Mom noticed something was wrong.
She brushed the hair from my forehead and wiped my cheek with the back of her hand. "Anna. Did something happen?"
To keep them from worrying, I lied.
"A classmate got really sick. But their family can't afford treatment." I stared at my bowl. "I think… they're just going to die."
Dad sighed. "Only seventeen or eighteen. What a tragedy." He shook his head. "If you ever got sick, your mom and I would take out loans, sell our blood—whatever it took to save you."
Mom shot him a glare. "Our Anna is perfectly healthy. Don't say such unlucky things."
My hand trembled. My chopsticks clattered to the floor.
