Billions for My Brother, Regrets for My Grave

In my parents' hearts, there was always a "perfect son" who died too soon.

I was just his flawed substitute, while my younger brother was their new hope.

They pretended to be poor for 20 years, secretly funneling all their resources to him.

While I was in the final stages of stomach cancer, writhing in pain, they were spending millions of dollars to build him a state-of-the-art study room.

When the doctor told me to notify my family about hospital bills, I felt helpless, thinking they were just ordinary, broke workers.

When my mom finally showed up at the hospital, she grabbed my hand, not out of concern.

"Neville is under so much stress with his college entrance exams. Can you not die right now? He can't take it."

My dad stood by, wearing a stern expression. "David was way more sensible than you."

I clutched my cancer diagnosis, curling up on a cold bench.

The doctor sighed, pressing me to call my family.

"They're cleaners. They don't have the money," I said, turning around to catch a glimpse of the broadcast on the lobby TV.

A man in a sharp suit was being interviewed.

"Millions of dollars for a smart learning space for the kid? Worth every penny."

To my surprise, it was my dad, Otis Gordon.

My hands started shaking.

On the way home, a ridiculous hope flickered. Maybe, just maybe, they'd care about me this time.

Even a little would be fine.

The front door was still that same rickety one.

Otis stepped out of his room, wearing his usual tattered clothes. My mother, Colette Gordon, in her patched-up apron, handed me a bowl of bland soup.

On the table sat a stack of Neville Gordon's math competition practice sheets.

Otis glanced at my pale face and frowned. "You are weak. David could climb cliffs at 15. You need to toughen up."

My faint hope was shattered.

A sharp pain stabbed through my stomach, forcing me to curl up on the floor. Cold sweat drenched my clothes.

Colette handed me a glass of water, her tone sharp. "Drink this and finish those problems. Neville needs them tomorrow."

My weak hands, trembling from pain, knocked over the glass.

Otis's face darkened. "What is wrong with you? David worked at the market hauling vegetables with a fever, and you can't handle this?"

He slammed the practice sheets in front of me. The pages sliced the back of my hand.

I writhed in pain, my stomach twisting.

Neville Gordon came downstairs, glaring at me with disgust. "Dad, is she faking it to get out of work? So dramatic."

I struggled to get up, leaning against the wall. "Can I have some money for painkillers?"

Otis dug out a few coins and tossed them at my feet. "You're spoiled. David never asked for a dime."

I froze, almost doubting the man on TV, throwing around millions, was really him.

Colette picked up the coins. "Painkillers? Just tough it out. This money could buy a week's worth of pasta for the whole family."

I grabbed the practice sheets and started writing. Blood from my hand stained the paper.

Neville snapped, "Your blood's messing up my quizzes."

I looked up at my brother, pampered his whole life. His eyes held nothing but contempt for me.

I kept writing despite the burning pain in my stomach.

Otis sat on the couch, shaking his head. "David never complained about homework. He'd sit for hours."

My hand shook as I gripped the pen.

Colette washed dishes nearby. "Take your time. Don't waste paper. Everything's expensive. Kids like you don't get how hard it is to make ends meet."