After the Countdown

When I was born, the nurse handed me over to my parents, and the smiles on their faces instantly vanished.

Hovering over their son's smooth head was a line of numbers that no one else could see.

6570 days.

It was exactly 18 years. Not a day more, not a day less.

The nurse thought they were just nervous first-time parents, but my parents knew the truth. That number was my lifespan.

While everyone else in the delivery room was celebrating a new life, my parents were staring at my death.

For the next 18 years, I was the most precious person in the family.

No matter how poor we were, the eggs were always mine, the new clothes were always mine, and the meat was always mine.

My younger sister could only look on enviously. My parents often told her, "Let your brother have it. He doesn't have much time left."

I was well-behaved from a young age, never causing trouble, quietly waiting to die.

On my 18th birthday, I blew out the candles and said a sincere goodbye to the world.

The next day, my parents and sister, dressed in black clothes, walked into my room with swollen eyes.

I rubbed my eyes, smiled at them, and said, "Good morning."

The air froze.

The sadness on their faces slowly turned into astonishment, then coldness.

The air hung heavy for 10 whole seconds.

"You... how come..." my sister, hiding behind my mother, asked. Her voice trembled as if she'd seen a ghost.

"I'm still alive," I said.

My father's expression changed, and he forced a smile. "I'm glad you're still alive. This is great..."

He nudged my mother and said, "Go make breakfast!"

My mother agreed in a daze. She walked to the door, then looked back at me, her expression so complicated I couldn't tell what she was thinking.

For the first time in 18 years, I felt like something was off with my family.

Breakfast was toast and eggs.

As usual, my sister put an egg in front of me. I reached out to take it.

Slap!

My hand was heavily smacked by my mother, instantly turning red.

"How old are you? Why are you still taking your sister's egg?! You're so inconsiderate."

I pulled my hand back and just finished the toast.

After breakfast, I volunteered to wash the dishes.

Before this, when I offered to do the dishes, my mother would stop me immediately. She would smile dotingly and say, "Honey, you don't need to do that."

This time, she looked at me coldly and said nothing.

After washing the dishes, I forgot to wring out the dishrag and left it on the edge of the sink.

My mother walked in, and when she saw the dishrag, she instantly turned furious.

"Are you stupid? Why are you leaving the dishrag like that? Do you want it to get moldy?!

I froze for a moment and quickly went to grab the dishrag.

"I raised you for 18 years!" she followed behind me, her voice shrill, "We always give you the best of everything. The eggs are yours, the meat is yours, the new clothes are yours. Has your sister ever worn anything new?! You can't even wash dishes properly..."

"Mom, I washed the dishes. It's just the dishrag..."

"How dare you talk back to me, you insolent brat?!" She snatched the dishrag from me and threw it on the floor.

"Look at you! What's with the long face? You're 18 years old, but you can't even wring a dishrag dry, you good-for-nothing!"

My father walked over. He looked at my mother's ferocious expression, then at my bewildered face.

He waved his hand, as if to quell a meaningless argument. "Stop arguing. Get back to work."

I bit my lip and asked weakly, "Mom, Dad, are you guys treating me like this because I didn't die?"

They instantly stiffened. My father took a deep breath, smiled awkwardly, and said, "We're just... not used to it yet. We need some time to… process it…"

They walked away, murmuring, "How can he just decide to not die? What's his problem?"

I didn't understand. Shouldn't they be happy that I was still alive?

I looked out the window.

The sunlight was still the same as the sunlight the day before, but for some reason, it felt much colder.