The notice of my mother's layoff sat on the kitchen table.

Rent was due in three days. My younger brother's tutoring fees were already two weeks late. And my little sister, Stephanie, clutched her acceptance letter to the local public arts high school like she'd done something wrong.

None of this would be happening if it weren't for me. My illness had taken everything our family had saved.

I stayed in my room, leaning against the door, wanting to tell them I'd drop out of treatment—but I couldn't bring myself to open it.

"Why did he have to fall sick?"

My mother was crying, her voice low and tight, like the words were being forced out of her. "If it were just you both, Stephanie and Jamie, we'd be fine by now."

"Mom, please don't say that."

My brother and sister held her, barely holding back their own tears.

"He's a burden… but he's still my son." Her voice cracked. "I just… I can't do this anymore…"

I stepped back and sank into my chair.

It wasn't an accusation. It was a verdict.

"We're out of money." My mother's voice was hoarse; she couldn't look my brother or sister in the eye.

"It's okay. I won't go." Stephanie Woodburn crumpled her acceptance letter into a ball and tossed it in the trash.

"I'll get a job and earn money." My younger brother, Jamie Woodburn, stood up, his thin frame making him look painfully fragile.

"Enough!" Mom shouted. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Maybe if I died, they could live.

I opened the secondhand laptop on my desk and logged into the backend system for the National High School Physics Competition.

On the screen: [Charles Woodburn — First Place Gold Medal. Guaranteed admission pending confirmation. Special award: 5,000 dollars (to be disbursed immediately).]

This was the secret I'd kept for six months.

I hadn't told my mom. This money couldn't be used to fill the bottomless pit that was me.

I clicked "Decline Guaranteed Admission."

A warning popped up: [This action is irreversible. The award will be disbursed to the designated account in accordance with the forfeiture compensation clause. Confirm?]

From the hidden compartment in my drawer, I pulled out Stephanie's Social Security card.

I entered the card number and hit confirm.

My existence was this family's only negative asset. Once that asset was cleared, the deficit would turn into a surplus.

I took out a sheet of printer paper and wrote the title: Asset Allocation Statement

Item 1: Physics competition award of 5,000 dollars has been transferred to Stephanie's account. The password is her birthday. It's enough to cover three years of tuition at the arts high school.

Item 2: My accidental death insurance policy. The beneficiary was changed to Mom two months ago. Coverage: 30,000 dollars.

Item 3: Jamie, my study notes are on the D drive. They're valuable. Don't delete them.

When I finished, I placed the paper under the laptop, locked the door, and took three bottles of escitalopram from my pocket.

Recurrent major depressive disorder—that's what I have. I rely entirely on this imported medication that isn't covered by insurance.

It can't cure me. But it can kill me.

I poured out a handful of white pills and shoved them into my mouth.

I drank some water, swallowed the handful, then took another handful, until the bottles were empty.

I lay down on the bed. My stomach churned violently; my heart pounded like it would burst through my chest.

My phone buzzed.

A text message: [Bank Alert] Your account ending in 3091 has received a transfer of 5,000 dollars.

The money had arrived.

My consciousness began to blur; numbness spread through my limbs.

I closed my eyes and gave this family the only real release I could.

At 5:30 a.m., the alarm rang on time.

My body lay curled under the blanket, white foam and undigested pill fragments clinging to the corner of my mouth.

I reached out to turn off the alarm, but my hand passed through the nightstand.

I floated beneath the ceiling, looking down at the corpse called "Charles."

Mom got up. A knock sounded at the door.

"Charles, get up and take your meds," she called through the wood. "Your oatmeal's on the stove."

The body didn't answer. The alarm kept ringing until it shut itself off.

"Lazy to the point of death," she muttered. She didn't open the door.

I have a terrible morning temper. The doctor said it's a depression symptom—she doesn't dare provoke me.

At six o'clock, Jamie and Stephanie got up and began fighting over the bathroom.

"Why didn't he come out to hog it today?" Jamie said around his toothbrush, kicking my door.

Stephanie came over with her backpack and pressed her ear to the crack.

"Charles?" she called softly. "I'm heading to school."

She frowned, then pulled a ten-dollar bill from her pocket and slid it under the door.

"Leftover from buying books yesterday. Get yourself some snacks."

At 6:30 a.m., the front door slammed shut. The house fell back into a dead silence.

To save twenty cents on the bus fare, Mother had left half an hour early, walking to the labor market.

At 9:00 a.m., sunlight slipped through the poorly drawn curtains and fell across the corpse's bluish lips.

My phone screen lit up. It was a reminder from the hospital.

[Charles Woodburn, your follow-up appointment is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. today. Please arrive on time.]

No one saw it.

At 10:15 a.m., my mother returned.

She collapsed onto the sofa, staring blankly at the crumpled admission letter Stephanie had thrown away the night before, still lying on the coffee table.

Then she noticed the bowl of porridge sitting outside my door.

"Damn it all," she muttered.

She picked up the bowl meant for me, tilted her head back, and gulped it down in a few swallows.

Her phone rang. She answered.

"Hello? Is this Charles's parent?"

"Yes. What has he done now?" Her hand tightened instinctively around the receiver.

"This is the National High School Physics Competition Committee. We need to verify something. Charles has applied to forfeit his guaranteed admission and has transferred the special award of 5,000 dollars into Stephanie Woodburn's account. Was this authorized by the family?"

Her hand trembled. The phone nearly slipped from her grasp.

"How much did you say?"

"Five thousand dollars. The transfer was executed this morning."

Mother hung up.

Slowly, stiffly, she turned her head and stared at my tightly shut door.

Then she rushed forward and twisted the handle hard.

"Charles! Where did you send that money?" She pounded on the door. "Open up! Explain yourself! Have you lost your mind? That money was for your treatment! How could you give it to Stephanie?"

Her voice sharpened, rising into a shriek. "Are you trying to ruin this family?"

She began slamming her shoulder against the door.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. Stephanie ran in, breathless.

"Mom! Stop!" She rushed forward and grabbed her.

"Why are you back?" Mother shook her off. "Charles transferred the money to your account? Transfer it back now! We need to pay our debts!"

"It's not about the money!" Stephanie raised her phone, her face ashen. "I got the message too, but I just checked Charles's location…"

She pointed to the "Family Anti-Loss Tracking System" on the screen. The red dot that represented me was still in the bedroom. And the heart rate monitor showed: —.

That meant the wristband had been removed… or the heartbeat had stopped.

"Charles hasn't moved since last night." Stephanie's voice trembled.

Mother froze.

Her eyes fell on the ten-dollar bill still lying where Stephanie had pushed it under the door.

A vast, icy fear finally crushed the anxiety over money.

She took a step back and looked at the door.

I looked at her too.

Mother raised her leg and, with all her strength, kicked at the lock.

The door flew open.

The instant it gave way, a stale wave of air rushed out. The smell of a sealed room overnight—mixed with the sour stench of vomit. The smell of death.

Mother froze in the posture of her kick. Stephanie ducked under her arm and rushed inside.

"Charles?" she called tentatively.

I hovered above them, watching it all.

My body lay there on its side, back to the door. The posture looked natural—like I was just sleeping in, as usual.

On the nightstand, the phone vibrated again, its glow lighting a small patch of the room.

Buzz—buzz—

A message from Jamie popped up: [Bro, I listed your game account. Someone's offering fifty dollars. Should I sell it?]

Mother saw the empty pill bottles on the table and staggered toward them.

"Charles!"

She yanked the blanket away.

My face was ashen, my lips purple, dried white foam clinging to the corner of my mouth.

Stephanie let out a sharp scream and covered her mouth.

Mother's hand trembled as she reached out to feel for my breath.

Nothing.

She pressed her fingers to my cold and rigid carotid artery. She recoiled as if shocked, collapsing backward onto the floor.

Then suddenly, she lunged at me, prying at my mouth with her fingers.

"Spit it out… spit it out…"

My clenched jaw wouldn't budge. She couldn't force it open.

"Charles, spit it out! Who told you you could die? Who gave you permission to die?" she shouted as she pounded my back, just like when I choked on jelly as a child.

The dull thuds echoed through the room.

The body didn't respond. Only my head rocked weakly with each blow.

Stephanie finally snapped out of it and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Mother's waist.

"Mom! Stop! He's already stiff! He's stiff!"

In the struggle, the laptop on the desk was knocked askew.

The A4 sheet that had been pinned beneath it slipped free, drifting to the floor—landing right in front of Mother.

Asset Allocation Statement.

Mother froze. Her eyes locked onto those lines.

Five thousand dollars from the physics competition… transferred to Stephanie's account…

Accidental death insurance… beneficiary: Mother…

Jamie… the notes can be sold…

Every word struck her like a slap across the face. At last, she understood. I had paid for this crumbling family with my life.

Mother collapsed to the ground, clutching the paper so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She stopped crying. Stopped shouting.

An eerie silence filled the room.

Only Stephanie's suppressed sobs remained.

"Thirty thousand…" Mother murmured. She lifted her head and looked at my body, her expression so complex it felt foreign to me.

Was it grief? Guilt? Or… relief?

Footsteps pounded urgently outside.

"Mom! I'm back! I saw an ambulance downstairs. Who's sick?"

Jamie burst through the door, his schoolbag still on his back. He'd skipped P.E. class and rushed home, planning to beg me not to sell my game account.

He took one look at the scene in the bedroom.

The boy who only played games, the one always scolded as useless, stood frozen in the doorway like a statue.

"Charles?"

He walked in slowly, each step unsteady, like he was walking on cotton. He saw the empty pill bottles on the table, the letter on the floor—and finally, the body on the bed.

"What are you doing? Take him to the hospital!"

Jamie shouted and rushed forward, trying to lift me onto his back.

"Don't touch him."

Mother's voice was cold as ice.

Jamie froze. "Mom? Whether he's breathing or not, we still have to try! What if—?"

"It's no use." Mother pushed herself up using the edge of the bed. In that instant, she seemed ten years older. "Look at this."

She handed him the letter.

Jamie glanced at it once, then tore it into pieces.

"I don't want the notes! I want Charles! I want my brother!"

He flung the shredded paper at Mother's face.

"You just watched him die? That 'burden' you keep talking about—now that he's dead, are you happy?"