I Walked Away From My Family to Survive

My parents froze. Then Mom forced a strained smile.

“Not yet. I just… haven’t managed to save enough.”

I looked at her. “If I really am diagnosed with stomach cancer, will you give me some money?”

The room went silent. Maybe out of shame, maybe out of pride—they didn’t say what they really thought: that I wasn’t worth saving.

Just then, my brother’s door creaked open. He shuffled out, rubbing his eyes.

“Who’s raising money for cancer? I already said, once you’ve got cancer, treatment’s useless. Why waste the money?”

His words stung, though I’d overheard worse the night before. I studied him—tall, thin, still half-asleep.

“It’s me, Aaron,” I said quietly. “I’m the one with cancer. So treatment’s a waste of money, too. Right?”

He froze, startled. “Sister—you’re back? I thought it was some shameless relative here to borrow money.”

Then he muttered, “How could we lend money?”

I didn’t answer. I just looked at him until he squirmed. At last, Dad cleared his throat.

“Maria, go get a proper checkup first. We’ll talk after that.”

I nodded. “Fine. I’ll make an appointment this morning. Will you two come with me?”

The three of them exchanged a look. Finally, Mom spoke:

“Your dad will go. I’ll run to the market, buy some of your favorite dishes.”

I almost nodded—until Dad clicked his tongue.

“Didn’t we have that meeting with Mr. Thompson, the manager who arranged your brother’s job today? It took ages to set it up. We can’t cancel now.”

I asked, “Why are you meeting him?”

“To thank the man who arranged your brother’s job,” he said briskly. Then, as if it were settled, “Why don’t you go this afternoon? We’ll all go with you then.”

I shook my head. “Specialist appointments are only available this morning. I’ve already booked one. Go about your business. I’ll go alone.”

No one argued. The matter was dropped.

Mom turned to my brother. “Aaron, eat your breakfast.”

He waved her off impatiently. “No appetite. I’ve felt nauseous, bloated these past few days.”

Her voice turned anxious, motherly. “Didn’t I tell you to stay up less late? It’s probably indigestion again. Take some stomach medicine later.”

I stared at him. Since the moment I said I might have cancer, he hadn’t shown the slightest concern. Not even pretended.

But why would he? They’d all already said it themselves: cancer treatment is useless, a waste of money.

So I left as if for the hospital—only to circle back. Two taxis later, I was trailing them.

Instead of a clinic, they picked up Aaron’s girlfriend and drove straight to a housing sales center.

I paid the driver and waited across the road, watching. Not half an hour passed before Mom called.