The year I turned 24, I lost my family completely. To attend a concert, my sister stole the $60,000 I had painstakingly saved and bought scalped tickets at an inflated price. She knew full well this was my life-saving money for surgery. When I confronted her, my biased mother said, “She’s your sister. What’s wrong with using some of your money? Don’t be so calculative in a family.” Later, my sister ran off with my mother’s retirement savings, beating her so badly she was hospitalized. My mother then cursed my sister for being heartless, praising me as the best, saying she would rely on me for her retirement. I coldly rejected her: “That’s your daughter. What’s wrong with using some of your money? Besides, I don’t have a mother. Don’t claim false relationships.” “Early-stage stomach cancer. With timely surgery, it can be cured. Don’t worry too much.” “Young lady, don’t just work hard. Take care of your health too. You have a long life ahead.” The doctor’s advice fell on my dazed ears. My mind was filled with “stomach cancer”, “payment”, and “surgery”. When I came to my senses, I was already drenched in cold sweat. I knew how I got this illness. One word: poverty. Because of poverty, I saved desperately, wishing I could stretch one loaf of bread into three meals. Because of poverty, I worked tirelessly, wishing I could sleep at the office and work overtime every day. After two years of grueling work since graduation, I had finally saved $60,000 with sheer determination. Now, it was about to vanish, and I’d have to start from scratch again. My heart was bitter, my mouth sour. I slapped myself hard, forcing myself to stay strong as I called my mother. Surgery was a big deal, and I should at least inform my family: “Mom, I have something to tell you.” “You ungrateful girl! Has your salary been paid this month? If so, send the money home immediately. Your sister wants to buy new clothes. As the elder sister, you should volunteer to pay!” I swallowed the acid in my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit, and said bitterly, “Mom, I have stomach cancer. I need my savings for surgery. I don’t have extra money to send home.” There was a pause on the other end for a few seconds. Just when I thought my mother might show some concern, reality slapped me hard in the face. “How unlucky! You ungrateful money-pit! Looks like you’ve saved quite a bit in two years of work, only sending $3,000 home each month. Have you no conscience?” “Let me tell you, don’t expect the family to pay for your treatment. Your sister has been nagging about going to some concert recently but couldn’t get tickets. I’m trying to pull strings everywhere to buy tickets. Don’t bother the family with your trivial matters.” Then, “click”, the call ended. I forced a bitter smile. As expected, even my cancer surgery couldn’t compare to my sister’s desire to attend a concert. What was I hoping for? After all these years, I’m still so pathetic. I dragged my exhausted body home, collapsed on the bed, and recalled the bits and pieces of all these years. Tears soaked my pillow. I grew up in a single-parent family. My father died in a car accident early on, and my mother raised my sister and me. Life was tough. I felt sorry for my mother and was always the most sensible child in the family. But sensible children aren’t loved; it’s the crying children who get the candy. My mother could never treat us equally. I was the family’s beggar, while my sister was the little princess. All these years, I struggled, but I was still suffocated more and more by the shackles of so-called family affection. As I cried, I lost consciousness, seemingly having a beautiful dream where my father was still alive… When I opened my eyes again, I found myself lying in the hospital with an IV drip. Beside me was my best friend, Yolanda. Seeing me awake, she burst into tears: “You scared me to death, Penny! You had a fever all night. The next day, you didn’t go to work or call in sick. Your colleagues called you, but you didn’t answer. They went to your house and found you unconscious, so they rushed you to the hospital.” Then, with a trace of reluctance in her eyes, she continued, “Your colleagues called your mom and sister. They said…” She paused, “They said as long as you’re not dead, it’s fine, and then hung up. They couldn’t be reached after that, so they had to contact me based on your contact list.” I gave a bitter smile. My mother and sister were as consistent as ever. I told Yolanda about my stomach cancer and the need for surgery. She hugged me sympathetically, cursing my mother and sister for being inhuman! I shook my head. Forget it. After so many years, I’m used to it. I stayed in the hospital for two more days. Feeling better, I set a surgery date with the doctor and planned to pay the fees. But when I went to the payment window, I was shocked to find that my bank card linked to PayPal had a zero balance! This was impossible. I clearly had $60,000 in that card. I rushed home, but as soon as I arrived, I was dumbfounded. The house looked like it had been robbed, turned upside down. The bank card I kept in the drawer was gone, and even the little cash I had was swept clean.
I was about to call the police, but looking at the front door, I suddenly calmed down. This wasn’t a break-in; someone had used a key to enter directly. And the only person who had the key to my apartment and could do such a thing was just one person. My heart sank. I tremblingly took out my phone and dialed: “Ava Song, did you come to my house? Did you take my bank card?” A careless snicker came from the other end of the phone: “Yeah, it was me. Penny Song, you’ve been such a pushover for so many years, it’s about time you were of some use. I’ve already used your $60,000 to buy scalped tickets. I’m going to see my idol’s concert this weekend, third row in the inner circle. It’s going to be awesome!” I gripped my phone tightly: “Do you know how I saved that $60,000? How hard I worked for it?” “Do you know that $60,000 is my life-saving money for surgery!” “I know, Mom told me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known you were hiding so much money, Penny Song. You’ve got some nerve.” “Also, you’re really stupid. All your passwords are Dad’s birthday. It’s like you’re afraid people won’t guess it. The old man’s been dead for so many years, you should get over it. What, are you still feeling guilty about killing Dad? You’re so dumb. Bye!” Thinking of Dad, I collapsed on the floor. Is this really karma for what happened back then? If it wasn’t for buying me a birthday cake that year, Dad wouldn’t have driven out in the heavy rain, and he wouldn’t have died in a car accident. I wouldn’t have carried this guilt for so many years, enduring the exploitation from Mom and my sister. Looking at the mess in the room, my heart felt like a sour, soggy bun. Fighting the urge to vomit, I made one last call to Mom, hoping against hope that this wasn’t real: “Mom, my $60,000 was taken by my sister to buy concert tickets. Did you tell her about it?” “You ungrateful money-grubber! Looks like you’ve saved quite a bit in two years of work. You only give the family $3,000 a month. Have you no conscience?” “Let me tell you, don’t expect the family to pay for your treatment. Your sister has been nagging about going to some concert recently and couldn’t get tickets. I’m trying to pull strings everywhere to buy tickets. Don’t bother the family with your trivial matters.” Then “click”, the call ended. I forced a bitter smile. As expected, even my cancer surgery couldn’t compare to my sister’s desire to attend a concert. What was I hoping for? After all these years, I’m still so pathetic. I dragged my exhausted body home, collapsed on the bed, and recalled the bits and pieces of all these years. Tears soaked my pillow. I grew up in a single-parent family. My father died in a car accident early on, and my mother raised my sister and me. Life was tough. I felt sorry for my mother and was always the most sensible child in the family. But sensible children aren’t loved; it’s the crying children who get the candy. My mother could never treat us equally. I was the family’s beggar, while my sister was the little princess. All these years, I struggled, but I was still suffocated more and more by the shackles of so-called family affection. As I cried, I lost consciousness, seemingly having a beautiful dream where my father was still alive… When I opened my eyes again, I found myself lying in the hospital with an IV drip. Beside me was my best friend, Yolanda. Seeing me awake, she burst into tears: “You scared me to death, Penny! You had a fever all night. The next day, you didn’t go to work or call in sick. Your colleagues called you, but you didn’t answer. They went to your house and found you unconscious, so they rushed you to the hospital.” Then, with a trace of reluctance in her eyes, she continued, “Your colleagues called your mom and sister. They said…” She paused, “They said as long as you’re not dead, it’s fine, and then hung up. They couldn’t be reached after that, so they had to contact me based on your contact list.” I gave a bitter smile. My mother and sister were as consistent as ever. I told Yolanda about my stomach cancer and the need for surgery. She hugged me sympathetically, cursing my mother and sister for being inhuman! I shook my head. Forget it. After so many years, I’m used to it. I stayed in the hospital for two more days. Feeling better, I set a surgery date with the doctor and planned to pay the fees. But when I went to the payment window, I was shocked to find that my bank card linked to PayPal had a zero balance! This was impossible. I clearly had $60,000 in that card. I rushed home, but as soon as I arrived, I was dumbfounded. The house looked like it had been robbed, turned upside down. The bank card I kept in the drawer was gone, and even the little cash I had was swept clean.
I was about to call the police, but looking at the front door, I suddenly calmed down. This wasn’t a break-in; someone had used a key to enter directly. And the only person who had the key to my apartment and could do such a thing was just one person. My heart sank. I tremblingly took out my phone and dialed: “Ava Song, did you come to my house? Did you take my bank card?” A careless snicker came from the other end of the phone: “Yeah, it was me. Penny Song, you’ve been such a pushover for so many years, it’s about time you were of some use. I’ve already used your $60,000 to buy scalped tickets. I’m going to see my idol’s concert this weekend, third row in the inner circle. It’s going to be awesome!” I gripped my phone tightly: “Do you know how I saved that $60,000? How hard I worked for it?” “Do you know that $60,000 is my life-saving money for surgery!” “I know, Mom told me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known you were hiding so much money, Penny Song. You’ve got some nerve.” “Also, you’re really stupid. All your passwords are Dad’s birthday. It’s like you’re afraid people won’t guess it. The old man’s been dead for so many years, you should get over it. What, are you still feeling guilty about killing Dad? You’re so dumb. Bye!” Thinking of Dad, I collapsed on the floor. Is this really karma for what happened back then? If it wasn’t for buying me a birthday cake that year, Dad wouldn’t have driven out in the heavy rain, and he wouldn’t have died in a car accident. I wouldn’t have carried this guilt for so many years, enduring the exploitation from Mom and my sister. Looking at the mess in the room, my heart felt like a sour, soggy bun. Fighting the urge to vomit, I made one last call to Mom, hoping against hope that this wasn’t real: “Mom, my $60,000 was taken by my sister to buy concert tickets. Did you tell her about it?” “You ungrateful girl, are you obsessed with money? She’s your sister. What’s wrong with using some of your money? Don’t be so calculative in a family.” “Didn’t you say it was early-stage stomach cancer? I heard early-stage won’t kill you, at least you can drag on for eight or ten years. With such a long time, you’ll definitely save enough money. What are you panicking about? So useless!” Hearing this completely unapologetic response, I finally let out a desperate cry: “Mom! Why? Why are you so biased towards my sister? Am I not your daughter? Am I not your flesh and blood? Do you have a heart?” “In the cold winter, you made me wash clothes with cold water, my hands covered in chilblains, while my sister watched cartoons and ate sweet potatoes in the heated room.” “My clothes were always hand-me-downs that others didn’t want, while my sister could buy many new, pretty clothes every month.” “My sister ate meat while sitting, I licked meat scraps while standing.” “I got into a key provincial high school, but you said $8,000 a year was too much and didn’t let me go. I ended up in a regular high school, but you spent over $100,000 for my sister to attend a private school.” … I poured out all the grievances of these years in one breath, each sentence dripping with blood, each word falling with tears. But what did I get in return? A word of comfort? An apology? What I got was a “You’re crazy, I have to pack your sister’s luggage. Don’t bother me.” I hung up the phone, silently tidied up the house, and went to the hospital to tell the doctor that the surgery would be postponed for now. The doctor sighed, telling me to reconsider, and that he would keep my surgery date open. Grief beyond measure leads to a dead heart. I bid farewell to the doctor like a walking corpse. Just as I walked out of the consultation room, I bumped into someone. “Penny, is that you!” I looked up and saw it was Aunt Zhang, my father’s former colleague. She used to be close to our family, often visiting and bringing me candy. She was one of the few people who brought joy to my childhood. However, after my father passed away, my mother moved us, and we hadn’t seen her in all these years. Aunt Zhang noticed my poor condition. Upon learning about my stomach cancer, she angrily said, “How can Gwen be a mother like this? She promised me she would take good care of you sisters, that’s why I didn’t reveal the truth about your father’s death…” She seemed to realize she had said too much and abruptly stopped mid-sentence. A thunderbolt struck in my mind. I quickly grabbed Aunt Zhang’s hand and asked, “Wasn’t my father’s car accident because he went out to buy me a birthday cake?” Aunt Zhang looked shocked: “Of course not! That wasn’t the reason for your father’s accident at all. The real reason was your mother!” In the subsequent conversation with Aunt Zhang, I finally learned the truth about my father’s death in the car accident. I had been carrying the burden of my father’s death for so many years, allowing my mother and sister to exploit me, not daring to decisively rebel. I never imagined it was all a big joke.
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