Afraid of being questioned, my parents dressed me in rags and abandoned me near the orphanage.
Life at the orphanage was harsh. Every day, I was cold, hungry, and endured endless beatings.
At just eight years old, I was powerless to fight back.
Pain coursed through every inch of my body.
A thought flashed through my mind.
Maybe if I were beaten to death, I could see Grandma again!
But I knew that was impossible. The only way I could truly see her was by going back home.
With the last two dollars I had, I bought a ticket to return to the countryside.
I had no idea what kind of life awaited me.
But I was ready.
I would survive on my own!
After getting off the bus, I stumbled in the direction my memory guided me.
At last, I saw the small, rundown courtyard.
The faded red brick walls were covered in vines.
The old locust tree in the yard stood tall and lush, as if welcoming me home.
I pushed open the gate, which was only half-closed, and stepped inside.
Everything was just as I remembered it.
The flowers and plants Grandma had tended had grown even fuller.
I could almost see her kind smile, her busy figure moving among the blossoms.
"Grandma..."
I choked on the word, unable to hold back the flood of tears that came pouring out.
How I wished she could appear in front of me at this moment and give me a warm hug.
But everything had changed.
The only family I ever had in this world was gone.
I helplessly crouched down, burying my face in my old doll, letting the tears flow freely.
I didn't know how long I cried until the growl of my stomach pulled me back to reality.
I had nothing, not a penny to buy food.
I had to figure out a way to survive.
But no one would hire a child worker.
Desperate and starving, I resorted to scavenging for food in the garbage.
Sometimes I got lucky and found a piece of bread that wasn't spoiled.
More often, though, the food was rotten and hard as a rock.
I would gulp it down with water, my eyes squeezed shut.
A kind neighbor, seeing my pitiful state, would occasionally invite me over for a meal.
I stood in her yard, awkward and ashamed, staring down at my filthy clothes and shoes, worried I'd dirty her floors.
"Caroline, I saved a fresh beef pizza just for you," she said kindly.
I looked at her, astonished, hardly believing my ears.
"Hurry and eat it. It won't taste as good once it's cold," she urged with a gentle smile.
I couldn't hold back any longer. I grabbed the pizza and devoured it.
It was the best pizza I'd ever tasted.
As I ate, I cried.
A stranger was kinder to me than my own parents.
I wondered if, while I was rummaging through garbage, my pretty twin sister was still enjoying the love of our parents.
Even though they were divorced.
I imagined Hannah stayed with dad on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and with mom on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.
On Sundays, they'd all go on a family picnic together.
And me? I was barely surviving.
At an age when my peers were attending school, I was skillfully navigating through the streets and alleys.
Every trash can was a beacon of hope for me to survive.
For five years, I scrimped and saved, finally using the money I made from scavenging to buy the down jacket I had always dreamed of.
I no longer had to wrap myself in garbage bags to stay warm.
But I had ignored the gnawing pain in my stomach for too long, and it nearly cost me my life.
I collapsed in the freezing snow, my consciousness fading, my body growing colder by the second.
If the kind neighbor hadn't found me in time and rushed me to the hospital, I would have been dead.
Yet, the doctor's expression was grim when he said, "Young girl, you have late-stage stomach cancer."
He explained that eating rotten food from the trash for years had exposed me to viruses, which had ravaged my organs.
I asked the doctor, "How long do I have left?"
He sighed, hesitating before raising three fingers.
Three years, or three months? I didn't understand.
The doctor frowned and said, "You're still young. If you undergo aggressive treatment, you might live a bit longer."
I gave a bitter smile, feeling the three dollars and fifty cents in my pocket.
What right does a poor person like me have to fight for their life?