After my family’s physical, I went to collect the results.
The report suggested I might have stomach cancer. But when I went back for further testing, I noticed something odd—my sample didn’t match my brother’s.
My brother and I had always been close, so I rushed home overnight to bring him to Texas for a re-examination.
By the time I arrived, it was already dawn. The house lights were still on.
I had just reached the door when I heard his voice inside, grumbling:
“Stomach cancer? How much is that going to cost?”
Then his fiancée’s name slipped out.
“Nannan and I still need money for our wedding.”
I froze, but what my mother said next shattered me completely:
“Don’t worry. Cancer treatment is just throwing money away. I’ll persuade your sister to give up treatment. I won’t touch your wedding fund or the money for your house.”
She even laughed lightly, reassuring him:
“Besides, I always tell your sister we’re broke. She knows how things are. It’s only natural we can’t afford her treatment.”
——
My hand was on the doorknob, trembling so badly I couldn’t press it down.
Inside, the conversation carried on. My brother chuckled, coaxing her,
“I knew you loved me most.”
“You little brat,” my mother teased, “of course we love you. You’re our only son. Who else would we love?”
Her nagging voice went on and on—about me being unmarried, about me being a burden. My father finally cut in with impatience:
“You said if she married early, her wages would just go to her in-laws, so we should wait two more years. What’s the point of saying this now? She’s busy with work—who knows if she’s even seen the medical report? Just call her tomorrow.”
My mother snorted.
“I’m doing something wrong? Isn’t your son the one who benefits? Isn’t it you? Forget it. For now, let’s just pretend we don’t know anything.”
Soon after, the voices faded, and the lights clicked off.
I don’t know how long I stood outside, but when I finally came back to myself, tears were rolling down my cheeks.
Pretend we don’t know anything.
If I truly hadn’t seen the report, if I had just been busy with work—would they really have ignored it? Could my own family so casually turn their backs on me, act like nothing was wrong, while the doctors at the health center would be urging me, desperate for me to get checked in time?
The coldness sank into me like a blizzard on a sunny June day—sudden, merciless, burying me where I stood.
I thought of the past. My parents had worked long shifts in factories, earning little. My mother always told me: Don’t spend money recklessly. Learn to save. It’s hard for us to earn a living.
I believed her. I lived frugally in school, even when my classmates spent freely. I took out loans for tuition, worked part-time to support myself, and still sent my mother money from my meager earnings during breaks. She always smiled when she took it, praising me for being sensible and thoughtful—unlike my younger brother, who never considered her struggles.
Back then, I truly thought I could ease her burden. If she was happy, I was happy.
My brother is six years younger. When I started working, he was still in high school. Mom complained about the costs, but I clenched my teeth and covered his expenses. He got a generous allowance compared to what I ever had—about $150 a month in high school, $300 to $400 in college. He was sweet, obedient, and he was my only brother.
My life was hard, but I willingly spoiled him. I didn’t want him to suffer the way I had.
Whether as a daughter or a sister, I always believed my conscience was clear.
