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.

After that day, the atmosphere at home completely changed.

My family made me move into the storage room. My mother said it was because my sister was growing and needed more sunlight.

My mother no longer asked me what I wanted to eat. She would quietly set out the tableware, one set short, look at me, and then add it.

My father rarely spoke to me anymore. Sometimes, when he came back from outside, he would pause when he saw me sunbathing in the yard.

Then, he would turn around and go in through the back door.

My sister would occasionally stare at me from the storage room door, her gaze strange, as if she were observing a monster.

Before, I was the treasure they cherished for 18 years.

Now, I was the scapegoat for everything bad that happened in the family.

If the tap wasn't tightened, my father would instantly frown and chastise me, his tone no longer gentle like before, "Are you doing this on purpose? You're wasting water! Do you know how expensive the water bill is?! Stop wasting our money!"

"Dad, it wasn't me..."

"Don't call me Dad!" he shouted, then walked away.

When my sister failed an exam by one point, my parents said, "It's all your fault. You keep wandering around the house, affecting your sister's studies! We were supposed to have a peaceful life, but you ruined it all!"

When the chicken my mom cooked for dinner was a bit burnt, she slammed her fork down and said, "It's all your fault. Bad luck accumulates in the house because you didn't die. Now, even the pan is working against me!"

I was at a loss. Tears welling up in my eyes, I mumbled, "I thought I was going to die too."

Once, when I pressed the light switch, the light bulb flickered and then went out completely.

My mother completely erupted. "You're nothing but bad luck! Ever since you lived past 18, everything in the house has been breaking down! It's all your fault! 18 years! More than 6,000 days! Your father and I raised you, counting the days! We gave you the best of everything, and your sister got nothing. We were prepared to send you off. We rehearsed again and again... but you..."

She didn't finish, but I understood.

18 years. Their sacrifices, the days they carefully counted, had all become a joke.

They were unhappy not because I was still alive, but because the money they spent on me and the unfavorable treatment my sister received in those 18 years would only be justified if I died.

Now, it had all become meaningless.

I thought that as long as I swallow my anger, work hard, and make up for my "mistakes", my parents' attitude would get better and they would remember the love they once had for me.

I took on all the housework: washing clothes, cooking, doing groceries, mopping the floor…

I worked more diligently than a maid, changing the variety of dishes and keeping the house spotless.

But no matter how well I did, I couldn't earn a kind word or a smile from my parents.

I grew thinner and more haggard.

The neighbors eventually noticed. They gossiped about me in private.

Some of them advised my parents, "Don't be so harsh on Brandon. He's your son."

But my mother, in front of the neighbors, said with a look of disgust, "We just pretend we don't have this son. He's a monster, a jinx that ruins the family's luck! With him in the house, our family will never know peace!"

My father also chimed in, "We raised him for 18 years, so we've already done our best! Now, he's just freeloading at home. He's a burden to us!"

These words stabbed my heart like a knife, hurting me so much I couldn't breathe.

Everything that happened in the family, big or small, was a reason for my parents to attack me.

Finally, the incident with my sister became the straw that broke the camel's back.

That day, only my sister and I were home. I needed to go to the toilet, but I found that the storage room door wouldn't open.

I anxiously pounded on the door. "Heidi, can you open the door for me?"

No one opened the door for me. I only heard the sound of things breaking outside.

Following that was my sister's cry of pain.

Later, the door finally opened. It was my mother who opened it, and with it came a slap from her. She put all her strength into it.

"You jinx! I knew nothing good would happen at home as long as you're here!" Her eyes were bloodshot, looking like an angry beast.

She sat down on the floor, slapping her thighs and crying, "Why is my life so hard? I raised a monster son! Because of him, our family will never know peace!"

Right then, my father came home. When he saw my sister's broken leg and my mother's agitated state, he seemed to be infected by the mood.

He grabbed my collar, pulled me up, and threw me hard onto the bed.

"Just die, you disaster!"

I cried myself hoarse, desperately trying to explain.

"Mom, Dad, it's not my fault. Heidi wanted to take the candy on top of the cupboard and fell..."

I was locked up, not given any food or water.

I could hear the sounds outside. I could hear my mother cooking in the kitchen. I could hear my father's footsteps when he returned from work. I could hear my sister complaining loudly that her leg hurt.

No one mentioned me.

I curled up on the cold bed, shivering, my cheek swollen high. My body was burning with a high fever that wouldn't go down. My consciousness was slowly fading.

This time, I really thought I was going to die.

Death didn't sound so bad. It would be a relief to die.

18 years of memories flashed through my hazy mind like a movie.

Ever since I could remember, I could tell that my parents looked at me differently.

At first, I didn't understand the meaning of this look. It felt like they were looking at a porcelain doll that would break at any moment. Their gazes were cautious and immensely complicated.

Later, I understood that it was a mix of pity, helplessness, and grief.

They never mentioned my future.

Our family had always been living around a countdown.

The aunties in the neighborhood praised me for being well-behaved, saying that this boy was always quiet, never noisy or making trouble.

What they didn't know was that I simply couldn't be bothered to make trouble.

I was well-behaved from a young age because there was no reason to throw tantrums.

The other kids at my kindergarten would cry over a piece of candy or throw a tantrum because they didn't get a flower.

I wouldn't. My candy was always the biggest one, and I always got the first flower.

The teachers liked me, saying that this boy never gave them trouble.

Only I knew I wasn't really obedient.

I was just waiting for the day the number counted down to zero.

Later, my sister was born, and I could see even more guilt in my parents' eyes.

When Heidi was five years old, she secretly ate the meat in my bowl. When my mother found out, Heidi was beaten.

She cried and shouted, "Why can Brandon eat it, but not me?"

My mother didn't answer and just continued hitting her.

After the beating, Heidi hid in the kitchen and cried for a long time.

"Brandon," my sister said softly, "Are you going to die? Mom said you're going to die. Brandon, I don't want you to die. I'll give you all the meat from now on."

The memories of my mother and sister's eyes intertwined with their current selves, giving me a splitting headache.

Did they love me?

They did love me, but this love had a time limit. It was built on a countdown and was meant to end.

After 18 years, the countdown ended, and the love vanished.

If I died, the love would have remained perfect in my memories.

We would all be our most gentle selves.

In my memories, my mother lovingly stroked my head and said, "Brandon looks so handsome in this little suit."

My father held me up high, saying he wanted to take me to see the most beautiful scenery in the world.

My sister secretly saved her precious yogurt for me.

These memories seemed so close, yet so far away.

I struggled to open my eyes. I was still in that storage room.

No light came in. The room was empty.

I moved my fingers, wanting to feel the letter under the pillow.

It was a letter I wrote to my parents and sister.

I wrote it a while ago, but I didn't die. My lips curled into a bitter smile.

There was also a golden piggy bank. There wasn't a lot of money in it, but there was enough to buy a small toy for my sister.

I fell asleep again.

When they find me and see these things, surely they won't be angry at me anymore, right?

This time, I slept soundly, without any dreams.

I heard my own heartbeat.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Then slowly, slowly, it faded away.

The storage room became completely quiet.

No one realized.

No one came to check.

The boy waiting for death could finally stop waiting.