They Faked Poverty to 'Build My Character'—Now I'm Dead

Probably the transfer confirmation.

I looked toward the other side of the bridge, at the brilliantly lit luxury villa neighborhood.

Their lives must be comfortable, right?

No daily panic over debt. No lying awake wondering how to pay for treatment. No rationing meals, never sure where the next one would come from.

I looked down again—dozens of yards to the water—and felt nothing.

Just relief. Just numbness.

I climbed over the guardrail. In the deserted dead of night, I let go.

The icy lake swallowed me whole.

At the instant I released the railing, WeChat notifications pinged from my pocket, one after another.

But I didn't have the strength to think anymore.

I just wanted to sink. To disappear forever.

"Ellie, what I'm going to say next might surprise you, but everything Mom says is true."

"Our family isn't short on money. Your dad and I own a publicly listed company."

"Your dad wanted to build your character. Make you understand the value of hardship."

"The test is over now. You passed. You're very filial."

"Remember all that money you transferred to us? Twenty thousand total? We've decided to give you twenty million."

"Buy a house, a car, designer bags—spend it however you want."

When I opened my eyes again, everything looked wrong.

I was floating above the bridge. The night wind passed through my body, but I felt nothing.

Below, the river flowed in silence.

No commotion. As if nothing had happened.

Headlights cut through the darkness, approaching fast.

A Maybach. I recognized the logo from the mall where I worked.

The window was half-open. The young man in the passenger seat made me freeze.

Zachary Abbott—the one Dad hadn't shut up about six years ago.

He said sponsoring that mountain orphan was the best thing he'd ever done.

Said he was smart, sensible, had excellent grades.

And the middle-aged man in the back seat, chatting and laughing—

That was my father.

Not the father from my memory, crushed by illness and debt, his brow permanently creased.

His complexion was rosy. His expression relaxed.

He was smiling, patting Zach's shoulder, saying something I couldn't hear.

Zach smiled back. Easy. Natural. Close.

The car sped past, leaving me frozen in the cold air.

I followed.

The Maybach crossed the bridge and pulled into the villa neighborhood I'd envied before I jumped.

It stopped in front of an elegant three-story home.

As Dad and Zach stepped out, the front door opened.

A middle-aged woman emerged.

Elegantly dressed. Every gesture polished, refined.

I stared at the rich lady.

That was my mother.

She wore an easy, happy smile. Warm and natural, she reached up to straighten Zach's collar.

"Chloe, add a squirrel mandarin fish. Zach loves it."

"He got into such a prestigious university—we have to celebrate properly."

Her voice carried clearly. Every word sliced through me.

The three of them walked inside, chatting and laughing.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw the spacious living room. A crystal chandelier. A dining table loaded with exquisite dishes.

They sat down. Raised their glasses. Laughed.

"Zach, you're incredible—worthy of being Mom's good son."

"Getting into such a competitive school! Tell me, what reward do you want? I'll agree to anything."

Dad's laughter followed.

"I told you our Zach would make it. You've made us so proud."

"How about this—before school starts, I'll get you a sports car."