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."

My pen tore through the paper.

Neville glanced over, annoyed. "Forget it. I'll get the answers from a friend tomorrow. She's useless like this."

I stood up, scattering the sheets.

Otis scowled. "What are you doing?"

"I've got late-stage cancer," I croaked, forcing out each word.

...

Colette's hand froze mid-air, while Otis's frown deepened.

Neville scoffed, "Faking it to skip my homework? Pathetic."

I pulled out the diagnosis and placed it on the table. The stamped report, bearing the doctor's signature, was laid out clearly before their eyes.

Colette muttered in disbelief, "How could it be?"

Neville snorted, "That's obviously a fake. My buddy uses those to skip school all the time."

Otis rushed over and slapped me across the face. "Now you're buying fake medical records? What did we teach you?"

I crouched down, picking up the scattered sheets one by one. Blood dripped from my nose, staining the paper.

Neville kicked my shoulder. "Hurry up. I need to sleep."

I kept picking, blood still oozing from my hand.

Otis frowned at the mess. "So weak. David worked with a broken hand and never complained."

Colette came out of the kitchen, hesitating at the sight of my bloody hand. "Need a Band-Aid?"

I shook my head. "No."

Otis smirked. "Guilt-tripping? David never complained over a scratch."

I nodded. "Yeah, he wouldn't."

My voice, barely audible, was laced with bitter self-mockery.

Neville yawned. "I'm out. Answers on my desk by eight tomorrow."

I clutched my stomach, sinking to the floor.

Otis glanced at me. "Get some rest. You've got work tomorrow."

Colette turned off the light. "Don't stay up too late. Electricity's not cheap."

They left me alone in the dark, and the pain in my stomach surged like a tidal wave.

My phone rang. It was the hospital.

"Ms. Gordon, you need to be admitted immediately, or..."

I hung up without a word.

I wasn't without hope. I just knew where it came from and where it broke.

Getting up, I walked to Neville's room.

The door wasn't locked.

I pushed it open and found him fast asleep on the bed. A fashionable new phone lay by his pillow.

I'd worked at that store, knowing the phone cost over ten grand.

There was no way he could afford it. Our family pinched every penny.

I picked up the phone, a message glowing on the screen. [Got the competition answers. 50 grand.]

My hands shook.

They spent 50 grand on the answers but would not spare a few bucks for my painkillers.

I put the phone down and left.

From my parents' room, I heard hushed voices.

"Lenora is looking rough. Could she really be sick?" Colette's voice wavered.

Otis brushed it off. "Kids get sick. Remember when David was little?"

I pushed open the door and saw stacks of cash on the bed, glowing under the dim lamp.

And my parents were counting them.

Colette quickly covered them with a blanket. "Lenora, why aren't you asleep?"

I stared at the blanket, laughing mockingly and bitterly.

"I need a thousand bucks," I said.

Otis's face twisted with anger. "A thousand? For what?"

I looked at them calmly. "My illness is real."

"What illness?" he asked.

I pulled out the crumpled diagnosis and smoothed it out.

Otis scowled. "Neville already told us it's fake. Why are you still lying to us?"

Colette lowered her voice. "Did you mess up? What's the money for? You're in trouble?"

I met their eyes. "I have stomach cancer. I'm not lying."

Otis got up, pacing. "If it's real, where would we get that kind of money for your treatment?"

Colette covered her face. "What do we do? Neville's got his competition tomorrow."

The last shred of hope I had been clinging to died.

"I'm not getting treated," I said.

They both sighed in relief.

Otis nodded. "Treatment might not even work anyway."

Colette wiped her tears. "You've got to understand how hard this is for us."

I turned around and shut the door.

The walls were thin, and I could hear their whispers.

"How did she learn to lie like that?"

"Did we mess up raising her?"

"We can't call her out too hard. If she makes a fuss, it will affect Neville's exams."

"She's nothing like David. He was so easy."

...

In the living room, a huge photo of David Gordon loomed over everything.

It had been ten years, but his face was still painfully perfect.

"Write," Otis barked, slapping a pen in front of me. "David's handwriting had strength. Yours is weak."

I gripped the pen, but my stomach ached again.

My every stroke mimicked that flawless brother who never made mistakes.

Neville came downstairs and deliberately knocked over the table.

The ink bottle spilled, black liquid swallowing my half-hour of work.

"Oops, Lenora's writing is ruined again," he yelped innocently, smirking with glee.

"On your knees!" Otis roared, unleashing his anger on me.

I knelt before David's portrait. Pain surged through my stomach.

Cold sweat rolled down my forehead, but I bit my lip to stay silent.

Otis's voice boomed above me. "Think hard about when you'll be half as good as David."

I looked up at David's perfect, smiling face, frozen forever at 18.

He never messed up, never disappointed Otis, and never got punished like this.

Colette's voice was soft as a breeze. "Neville, finished your homework yet?"

"Two pages left," Neville whined playfully.

"I'll make you some hot milk," Colette smiled.

Blood filled my mouth. I knew I was about to cough it up.

"Lenora's kneeling there, and it's distracting me," Neville complained.

Colette leaned close, whispering, "Keep it down. Don't bother him."

My whole world collapsed.

I was drowning in pain, and she was worried I'd disturb Neville.

Blood surged up my throat, and I quickly clamped my hand over my mouth.

Still, it seeped through my fingers, dripping onto the floor.