Listening to the voice message, the corner of my mouth twisted into a bitter smile.
So my family was rich all along.
But I was already dying.
——
On the lab report, the words "chronic myeloid leukemia" stabbed into my eyes like needles.
The doctor's voice was calm. And cruel.
"Long-term treatment is required. Prepare yourself—mentally and financially."
I thanked him, stuffed the paper into my bag, and pretended it didn't exist.
It wasn't until I walked out of the hospital that my head started buzzing.
The treatment costs were astronomical. Impossible for me to bear alone.
For Mom and Dad, they'd be devastating.
I pulled out my phone. On the screen was a WeChat message Mom had sent half an hour ago.
Ellie, coming home for dinner this weekend? Your dad keeps asking about you.
I stared at that line, and my nose stung.
Go home? How could I go home?
Tell them I was seriously ill and needed treatment?
I didn't dare. I really didn't dare.
I was so afraid that Mom and Dad—who had already worked themselves to the bone—would suffer because of me.
I wiped the tears from my eyes and typed a reply.
Mom, I have to work overtime. Everything okay at home? Do you have enough money?
The reply came almost instantly.