A week ago, my parents took my brother to Disneyland for his birthday.
I stood at the hospital entrance, clutching the money I'd saved for ages, and mustered the courage to enter.
I'd been having unexplained stomach pain for a month. When I asked my mom, she said it was normal.
When the test results came back, the doctor looked serious and asked, "Where are your parents?"
I brazenly replied, "They had something to do. Just tell me."
She gave me a sympathetic look and revealed the truth.
"Young lady, I'm sorry to say you've been diagnosed with stomach cancer. With active treatment…”
“I’ll recover?”
“You might live a few more years…”
The disease came from either family genetics or poverty.
I was poor on my own.
Growing up, while my brother enjoyed delicious meals, I scavenged for scraps, picking up leftovers and discarded bones at restaurants.
Having something to eat every few days was already a luxury; often, I went hungry for two or three days straight.
Turns out, poverty can cause cancer.
Kids getting cancer seems like a terrible thing, but seeing my parents' disdainful looks made me question if it was really so bad.
To show I was serious, I made a straightforward request.
"Leave me Grandma's brick house in the country. I don’t want anything from either of you."
Only then did they seem relieved.
With my issue resolved, their arguments dissipated.
In the end, muttering back and forth for my brother’s well-being, they decided not to divorce, just to make do.
And so, we found ourselves in this moment of a quiet Christmas gathering.
On TV, a familiar host smiled, joining celebrities in the countdown.
“3, 2, 1! Merry Christmas!”
Mom pulled out a gift she’d prepared and handed it to my brother.
He jumped up, tore it open with a somewhat disappointed face.
“Why is it this old robot?”
“But at least Sis doesn’t have it!”
After the countdown, the excitement faded into a lull, leaving everyone a bit bored.
Dad paced restlessly in the living room before heading out.
Mom drifted off in thought while making a beef burger for my brother in the kitchen.
The knife slipped, and blood gushed from her finger.
She hurriedly turned her head and shouted towards the living room.
“Ste…”
Then realized I wasn't there, sighing in frustration.
“Sol, get me some iodine and a bandage.”
I frowned, watching my hand pass through my mom’s, touching nothing but air.
My brother clicked his tongue impatiently.
“Stop bothering me, I’m busy defending the base. I’m about to lose my game.”