And I could finally repay that debt—the one that had weighed on me for eighteen long years.
But I was about to die.
That debt would never be settled now.
Having decided to die, I returned to the hospital.
The doctor said without surgery, I had one month left. As my condition worsened, my body would swell, I'd stop urinating, until my heart simply gave out.
After a brief struggle, I decided to donate my organs.
Better to help others than die in a hospital bed with no dignity.
And I could leave my parents some money for food.
The doctor couldn't talk me out of it. He agreed to my request.
I signed papers to donate my corneas and part of my liver.
While they drew blood and searched for matches, the doctor handed me a meal voucher.
Starving, I traded it for a palm-sized cake.
Because tomorrow was my eighteenth birthday.
The cake bristling with eighteen candles looked like a torture device.
I closed my eyes for a long time, but couldn't think of a single wish.
Maybe someone about to die shouldn't have hopes anymore.
I took tiny bites of the sweet cream, scraped the plate clean, and still wanted more.
My first cake ever. It was delicious.
Back in my room, the doctor told me they'd found matches. Surgery tonight.
I asked awkwardly, "How much will they pay?"
"I explained your family's situation to both recipients," he said. "They're willing to give you twenty-four thousand dollars total, including follow-up costs."
The number loosened something in my chest.
Soon, the recipients' families delivered a heavy bag of cash.
Surgery was imminent. I had almost no time left.
I tore a page from the visitor log, scrawled my last words with a ballpoint pen, and stuffed it into the bag.
As they wheeled me toward the operating room, I pressed the bag into the doctor's hands.
I fought back tears. "Please—give this to my mom and dad."
He nodded solemnly. "I'll hold onto it. When your parents visit, I'll make sure they get it."
The anesthesia hit. My mind went fuzzy.
When I woke, I was in a pristine white room, tubes snaking across my body.
Painfully, I lifted my arm, grabbed the breathing mask strapped to my face, and ripped it off.
Finally. It was ending.
The heart monitor screamed. Staff rushed in, hands pressing, machines whirring.
Their movements were frantic, but I felt nothing.
My body grew impossibly light, drifting up from the bed, pulled toward somewhere unknown.
Old people say the dead return home.
But my soul didn't go home.
It drifted to an unfamiliar villa in a wealthy part of the city.
A luxury van idled at the entrance. The driver opened the passenger door.
A painfully familiar figure stepped out.
Dad.
Dad—who always wore threadbare work clothes—was dressed in an expensive suit.
The villa door opened. A girl in her twenties walked out, looking exactly like me.
She hooked her arm through his. "Daddy, everyone's ready. We're just waiting for you!"
Daddy?
Did Dad have another daughter?
My soul followed them inside.
Pristine white carpet. Blinding luxury. And...
Mom.
