Blurb：
When my routine physical exam suggested possible stomach cancer, I never expected the real diagnosis would be familial betrayal. Returning home to collect my brother for further testing in Texas, I overheard my own mother and brother discussing my medical crisis as a financial inconvenience. While my brother worried about his wedding funds with his fiancée Nannan, my mother coldly calculated how to convince me to abandon treatment.
Discovering that my lifetime of sacrifice—working multiple jobs, sending money home, covering my brother's generous allowance—meant nothing shattered my world. The woman who always claimed poverty secretly maintained a wedding fund and house down payment for my brother. As dawn broke, so did my reality: they were willing to let cancer take me to protect their golden child.
This story explores heart-wrenching family dynamics, medical suspense, and the shocking moment when a daughter realizes her entire life has been built on lies. Perfect for readers who enjoy emotional thrillers about family secrets, medical dramas, and stories of resilience against betrayal.
Content：
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 2000-500050 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 2000-50000 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.
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The End