Don't worry about us. Just focus on work.
It's just that money your dad borrowed from Uncle Gabriel for the hospital… forget it, don't stress. We'll figure it out.
Dad's illness two years ago had emptied our savings. We still owed tens of thousands.
Mom always said it was almost paid off.
But I knew that was just something she said to comfort me.
She barely made anything running her street stall, and Dad couldn't work.
Even pinching every penny, paying it off seemed impossible.
So I reminded myself constantly.
The weight of this family could only rest on my shoulders.
I started frantically hunting for part-time work. Days at the design company. Nights at the convenience store. Delivery runs squeezed in between. Sleep compressed to almost nothing.
My body was breaking down, but whenever I thought of the debt Mom and Dad carried—whenever I pictured that lab report buried in my drawer—I couldn't stop.
I went to the hospital quietly and chose the most conservative treatment plan.
The doctor disagreed, but I insisted.
Dialysis was out of the question for now; the cost was too high.
I got only the most essential medication, using the money from selling my hair to cover the basics.