"It's okay, Mom. It doesn't hurt."
"I know you're just sick."
"Let's go to the hospital, okay? Once you're better, you won't make mistakes anymore."
My mother shook her head, tears streaming.
"Treatment costs too much. I don't want to waste money."
"I need to save it for your education."
In that moment, warmth flickered through my scarred and battered heart.
I made myself a promise: once I started working, I would save every penny I could. I would take my mother to get treated.
Then she'd never mistake me for someone else again. Never beat me for no reason.
All four years of college, I studied while working every job I could find.
I never asked my family for a single cent.
After I started working, I threw myself into making money even harder, not daring to rest for a single day.
Meanwhile, my sister dropped out of high school and lounged around the house doing nothing—either playing cards or shopping.
Mom always complained to me over the phone:
"Your sister has never been sensible. Mom can only rely on you."
"If one day my illness actually gets better, I'll make up for all the love I've missed giving you over the years."
I believed her.
I believed Mom loved me. She was just sick.