Instead, they spun the same lies they had ten years ago.
But I wasn't a child anymore.
During those weeks of working odd jobs, I saw Cynthia's social media posts.
New Year's Eve.
My parents threw her a welcome-home banquet. Fireworks exploded across the sky—all for her.
I was in a restaurant kitchen, scrubbing dishes. The owner took pity on me and pulled me aside to share some dumplings.
New Year's Day.
My parents took Cynthia hiking to a temple shrouded in mist at the mountain's peak, where they made wishes together.
I visited Grandma's grave.
Day two.
They cruised around the harbor on a yacht, sipping red wine.
I sold roasted sweet potatoes in the bitter cold.
Day three.
They went skiing.
Cynthia took a fall, and my parents fussed over her like she might break.
That same morning, I slipped on the icy road while pushing my vegetable cart to the market. I bit down on the pain, hauled myself up, and kept going.
One month.
The three of them lived it up without a care in the world.
I ran myself ragged.
The day before my flight, I bought a bouquet of carnations and laid them at Grandma's grave.
"Grandma," I whispered. "Someday I'm going to build a bigger place—one that can take in even more kids."