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 0-050 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.
But all my efforts turned out to be a joke.
Mom wasn’t poor. She had money—money carefully saved for my younger brother’s wedding fund, for the down payment on his house.
She just never had money for me.
I suddenly remembered two years ago, after a minor surgery. I craved homemade chicken soup, and she promised to send it. A single free-range chicken cost more than $40, and shipping was another 0-00 or so. She kept sighing about the expense, saying she didn’t have the money.
Back then, I didn’t think twice. I went out, bought three chickens myself, and transferred her about $300.
It wasn’t poverty. It was indifference.
She wasn’t poor—she just didn’t love me.
And my younger brother, the one I’d spoiled since childhood, wasn’t any better. Always sweet-talking, always coaxing. If I hadn’t come back this time, I might never have heard his real thoughts.
He didn’t care that I might be dying of cancer.
He only cared that my illness might cost him his wedding fund.
I had loved him for over twenty years. Yet I mattered less than his marriage.
Their indifference left me cold, hollow, like I had never truly belonged to this family.
Not my parents’ daughter.
Not my brother’s sister.
I stood before the dark, silent door, then turned away. I booked a hotel and dragged my suitcase downstairs. The neighborhood was hushed, the night heavy, and for the first time, I felt a strange sense of relief—relief that I wasn’t the one who was sick.
In the hotel, my thoughts turned to the money I had sent home over the years. In the early days, when I earned less, it was around 0-05,000 a year. Later, when the company prospered, I sent at least $30,000 annually.
Most transfers had gone through PayPal or Venmo—money I’d never see again. But there was one sum I still had a chance of reclaiming.
When I first started working, my mother had wanted to open a savings card for me. Her ID had expired, so she used mine instead. Every month, I deposited money into that card. I wasn’t sure whether she had touched it. I wanted to call customer service, but since the card was linked to her phone number, I was afraid she would be alerted.
So the next morning, as soon as the bank opened, I went in with my ID. The teller checked the account: the balance was about 0-020,000. Untouched.
I don’t know if she had trusted me completely, or simply forgotten the card wasn’t under her name.
I took a steadying breath.
“I lost this card,” I told the teller. “Please report it lost and issue me a replacement.”
Half an hour later, it was done. Report filed. New card in hand. Balance transferred.
I went out for breakfast, ate calmly, and then headed home.
It was Saturday. My mom had just set breakfast on the table. Dad was eating, and my brother’s door was still shut.
When I pushed the door open, they both looked up, startled. Their eyes flicked toward each other nervously before landing on me.
“Maria, why are you back?” Mom asked, her tone gentle, her face warm—the same mother I had always believed in.
I swallowed down the sting of last night’s memory and forced myself to sound casual.
“I was on a business trip and thought I’d stop by. Where’s Aaron? Still sleeping?”
Relief washed over them at my words.
“You know him,” Mom sighed, almost fondly. “Played games until midnight, won’t wake before noon on weekends. He never listens, and I worry myself sick.”
I smiled faintly.
Once, I had taken those complaints at face value, thinking Mom was exasperated, that she longed for him to change.
Now I knew the truth: behind every sigh, behind every complaint, lay nothing but boundless indulgence.
Dad beckoned me over for breakfast. I nodded and sat down.
“Work going well lately?” he asked.
“It’s the same as always,” I said. “So busy I barely have time to eat.”
Mom sighed gently. “Girls shouldn’t work themselves to death. Health matters more than money. It’s our fault as parents—we weren’t capable, so our precious children have to suffer.”
Her flawless act made my chest tighten until I could hardly breathe. I lowered my head, forced a slow breath, and said evenly, “If you have no one to rely on, you can only rely on yourself. That’s true for everyone.”
Her face flickered, and she glanced nervously at Dad. He stayed silent, while she let out another practiced sigh.
“Yes, yes. These days, you can only rely on yourself. You’ve always been independent, Maria. Unlike your brother—we worry about every little thing with him, never knowing when we’ll get a break.”
Once, those words would have filled me with guilt, making me think I hadn’t done enough, hadn’t eased her burdens. I used to ache with sympathy for her.
But now? Even faced with my possible cancer, she had no sympathy for me. Only excuses. Anger, grief, confusion—all of it swelled up inside me, burning behind my eyes. I clenched my teeth to hold the tears back.
Without answering, I picked up my phone and stood. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
I splashed water on my face, steadied myself, then walked back to the table. Placing the electronic medical report down, I flipped through the pages.
“Mom, Dad,” I said evenly, “your results look good. Aaron’s fine too. Now let’s check mine.”
The words suspected stomach cancer glared up at me again. My chest tightened. After a long silence, I raised my head. They were both eating, as if they hadn’t heard.
“My report says suspected stomach cancer.”
Only then did they look up, slow, reluctant.
“What? That clinic must’ve messed up,” Mom said quickly. “You should call and ask.”
Dad chimed in, “Yes, maybe it’s just a mistake.”
I held their gaze and replied, “That medical center is reputable. If the report says this, it’s likely accurate. I’ll need a follow-up exam to be sure.”
Then, turning to Mom, I said calmly, “So, give me the money you’ve been saving for me.”
She froze, caught off guard. “Maria… what money? I don’t recall anything like that.”
I didn’t blink. “When I first started working in Texas, you said you’d open a savings account for me. I deposited money into it every month.”
Her eyes darted to Dad, feigning confusion. After a pause, she forced a sigh.
“When did that happen? Mom really doesn’t remember.”
Dad’s face darkened. “Don’t tell me you’ve been treating the money Maria sent as if it were just a gift to us.”
My mother startled, then rushed out in a panic: “Maria, I’m sorry! I thought the money was for us. It’s all gone now. Your dad and I—we don’t have anything left.”
I studied them quietly. I’d expected this answer, but the sting still cut deep. “All spent?”
She nodded, already beginning her litany of excuses. “Well, life is expensive, and your brother—he hasn’t been doing well…”
I cut her off, my voice steady but sharp. “But you still saved enough for Aaron’s wedding, didn’t you?”
My parents froze. Then Mom forced a strained smile.
“Not yet. I just… haven’t managed to save enough.”
I looked at her. “If I really am diagnosed with stomach cancer, will you give me some money?”
The room went silent. Maybe out of shame, maybe out of pride—they didn’t say what they really thought: that I wasn’t worth saving.
Just then, my brother’s door creaked open. He shuffled out, rubbing his eyes.
“Who’s raising money for cancer? I already said, once you’ve got cancer, treatment’s useless. Why waste the money?”
His words stung, though I’d overheard worse the night before. I studied him—tall, thin, still half-asleep.
“It’s me, Aaron,” I said quietly. “I’m the one with cancer. So treatment’s a waste of money, too. Right?”
He froze, startled. “Sister—you’re back? I thought it was some shameless relative here to borrow money.”
Then he muttered, “How could we lend money?”
I didn’t answer. I just looked at him until he squirmed. At last, Dad cleared his throat.
“Maria, go get a proper checkup first. We’ll talk after that.”
I nodded. “Fine. I’ll make an appointment this morning. Will you two come with me?”
The three of them exchanged a look. Finally, Mom spoke:
“Your dad will go. I’ll run to the market, buy some of your favorite dishes.”
I almost nodded—until Dad clicked his tongue.
“Didn’t we have that meeting with Mr. Thompson, the manager who arranged your brother’s job today? It took ages to set it up. We can’t cancel now.”
I asked, “Why are you meeting him?”
“To thank the man who arranged your brother’s job,” he said briskly. Then, as if it were settled, “Why don’t you go this afternoon? We’ll all go with you then.”
I shook my head. “Specialist appointments are only available this morning. I’ve already booked one. Go about your business. I’ll go alone.”
No one argued. The matter was dropped.
Mom turned to my brother. “Aaron, eat your breakfast.”
He waved her off impatiently. “No appetite. I’ve felt nauseous, bloated these past few days.”
Her voice turned anxious, motherly. “Didn’t I tell you to stay up less late? It’s probably indigestion again. Take some stomach medicine later.”
I stared at him. Since the moment I said I might have cancer, he hadn’t shown the slightest concern. Not even pretended.
But why would he? They’d all already said it themselves: cancer treatment is useless, a waste of money.
So I left as if for the hospital—only to circle back. Two taxis later, I was trailing them.
Instead of a clinic, they picked up Aaron’s girlfriend and drove straight to a housing sales center.
I paid the driver and waited across the road, watching. Not half an hour passed before Mom called.
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