From that moment on, I swore to become financially independent. When my allowance ran dry, I worked. At my peak, I juggled classes and three part-time jobs in a single day. Days before my postgraduate entrance exam, I was still pulling shifts at a fast-food joint. Exhaustion caught up with me; I got caught in the rain, developed a high fever, and bombed the exam.
When Mom and Dad found out, they didn't offer comfort. Only ridicule.
Dad sipped his tea, voice flat. "I don't know what you do all day. Four years of university, and you can't even get into a graduate program. Look at your sister—she calls us every day, and she breezed into an overseas university."
"On a full scholarship," Mom added, beaming. "Won't cost us a cent."
Their words made me feel small. Worthless.
I had been confused then. Lily had never taken a book seriously in her life. How had she suddenly pulled it together? Now I knew. Her "scholarship" was a lie. She had climbed her way to New York on a ladder built of our parents' blood and sweat—and my sacrifice. They had whitewashed the bribery to save face.
And me?