Eight million dollars in demolition compensation, divided by contribution to the family.

So my brother, who once bought the family an air conditioner, walked away with four million.

My younger sister, who'd bought a washing machine, got one million.

Even my baby brother scored three million for buying a hair dryer.

And me—the one who'd held this family together for twenty-five years—I got a spatula.

Mom leaned back in her wheelchair and said, "If there are no objections, go ahead and sign."

When I didn't move, the ones who'd gotten their share all turned to look at me.

I looked at my mother. My voice came out quiet.

"Mom, why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is there nothing for me?"

She frowned, but her tone was matter-of-fact. "Because you haven't contributed to this family."

My chest seized. I stood there for a long time, unable to speak.

Finally, I set down the spatula, untied my apron, and said, "Okay."

——

Mom was half-paralyzed, propped up in her wheelchair. Beneath her sat the mugwort and dried-orange-peel lumbar cushion I'd sewn for her by hand.

My brother Sylvester Perez sat to her left, head down, scrolling through his phone. My sister Pat Perez sat to her right, kneading Mom's feet and massaging her legs, glancing up at me every now and then.

My youngest brother, Val Perez, was the most impatient of all, fingers flying across his phone screen. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the three of them, a weight like a stone pressing down on my chest.

The old house had finally been demolished.

But I never imagined it would end like this.

Mom glanced at me. Not a trace of guilt on her face.

"You're the eldest. Taking care of the family, looking after your brothers and sister—that was always your responsibility."

"You're single now anyway. No reason to fight them over this."

"Go make dinner. Everyone's hungry."

The three of them went on with what they were doing. None of them said a word.

I looked down at the spatula I'd used for twenty-five years. The wooden handle had been worn to a shine, its edges warped and misshapen.

Something in my chest froze solid.

I draped the apron over the back of a chair, poured myself a glass of water, drank it, set it down, and walked toward the front door.

Mom's voice sharpened with urgency. "If you're not making dinner, where do you think you're going?"

My throat was still tight. "Out. I need some air."

I'd barely reached the doorway when Val called after me.

I stopped. Turned around.

His eyes were bright, brimming with excitement.

"Priscilla Perez, you haven't signed yet. Sign first before you go."

I was fifteen years older than Val. I'd raised him with my own two hands. Those years had been brutal. But whenever I saw that bright, innocent smile of his, all the bitterness and exhaustion faded away.

Not anymore. His smile couldn't thaw the cold that had settled in my chest.

"I'm not getting any money," I said. "I don't need to sign. You three signing is enough."

Val blinked those wide, guileless eyes. "That won't work. You still need to write a statement waiving your claim to the demolition money."

He was the most educated one in our family, after all. Always a step ahead of the others.

I didn't move. "Does it matter whether I write it or not?"

Sylvester stood up. "Priscilla, this is all Mom's arrangement. You're not mad at Mom, are you?"

Was I mad? I wasn't sure "mad" was the right word. There was just this unbearable tightness in my chest, and my head felt like it was filled with fog.

I hesitated for a moment before answering. "No."

Pat turned to Mom. "Mom, maybe we should give Priscilla some of the money."

Sylvester shot her a glare. "You want to share, share from yours. I finally have enough to stop renting. I'm counting on this money to buy a house and pay for my son's school."

Val raised his hand. "I'm not taking the civil service exam anymore. I'm going to use this money to start a business."

Pat's lips moved, but she said nothing, her head dropping again.

Sylvester looked at me.

"Priscilla, I think Val has a point. You really should put something in writing."

"Write what?"

"That you're giving up your share of the demolition money. Obviously."

I laughed. I didn't even know why.

I took a deep breath.

"Fine. I'll write it."

I walked over to my mother, crouched beside her, and wrote a single line:

I voluntarily relinquish all claim to the eight-million-dollar demolition compensation.

Then, stroke by careful stroke, I signed my name: Priscilla Perez.

I set down the pen and looked at them.

"Can I go now?"

Mom smiled and nodded, her tone as casual as any other day.

"Don't forget to come back and cook lunch. Your brother loves your braised pork, and Val's been asking about it for days."

I walked down the cracked cement road, the surface warped and split from years of heavy trucks.

I thought about the year I turned sixteen, when Dad died in an accident.

At the funeral, Mom grabbed my hand and wept like her soul was being torn from her body.

"You're the oldest. From now on, you're the backbone of this family."

"My health is failing, and your brother and sisters are still young. You have to help me hold this family together. I'm counting on you."

That day, I stood in front of Dad's headstone in mourning clothes that didn't fit. I clenched my teeth and nodded.

From that day forward, my youth, my dreams, everything had to make way for this family.

I could have gone to college.

I could have had my own life, my own future.

But I gave it all up.

After the funeral, I held my baby brother on one hip while I knelt and bowed to every uncle and elder, thanking them for helping arrange Dad's burial.

Mom had four children and nearly bled out during one of the deliveries. Her health never recovered. She could only manage light housework after that.

The first year after I dropped out, I learned to plant rice at Uncle Hector's farm. I learned to raise seedlings, learned to transplant them into the paddies.

The sun blistered my skin until it peeled. Thick calluses formed across my palms. Even holding chopsticks hurt.

When the planting season ended, I picked fruit alongside the other women for the orchard farmers. Bent over all day, back screaming, spine feeling like it might snap in two.

Fifty dollars a day.

When there was no fruit to pick, I hiked into the hills to dig up herbs and sold them for pocket change to keep the household running.

At harvest time, I begged neighbors to help bring in our crops, fumbling through the work like a child pretending to be an adult.

The second year, I planted every inch of our fields with fruit trees. Saplings took three years to bear fruit. Three years. The family couldn't survive three years without income.

So I started bouncing between odd jobs at the small factories in town.

March meant making plastic crates. The workshop was sweltering, the fumes from melting plastic so thick I could barely keep my eyes open. Blisters bubbled up on my fingers, but I didn't dare stop.

May and June, back to the orchards picking fruit.

July onward, I ground glass into beads at the pearl factory. Fine dust coated my face, filled my lungs, left me coughing until my ribs ached.

When winter came, my hands swelled up like dough from the cold.

After my shift ended each night, I still had to go to the chicken farm to collect eggs. I wouldn't drag myself home until well past midnight.

During those years, I cried in the dark more nights than I could count. And every morning, I gritted my teeth, got up, and did it all over again.

Year after year, the only clothes on my back were hand-me-downs other people had thrown away.

But whenever my brother or sisters needed money, I never hesitated. Not once.

I spun like a top, around and around, year after year after year.

Finally, Sylvester got into college and married. Pat graduated too.

The weight on my shoulders eased, just a little.

By then, I was already thirty. A matchmaker set me up on a blind date.

He was from the next village over. An honest man. We had a simple wedding.

After the marriage, I split my energy in half. One half went to my own little family. The other half still went to my mother's house.

I thought things would slowly get better.

But five years later, my mother was suddenly paralyzed. She needed someone for everything—eating, drinking, bathing, using the bathroom.

Sylvester said he was too busy with work. Pat had just gotten married. Val said he needed to focus on his studies.

Nobody was willing to step up.

So I picked up the burden again, spending every day revolving around my mother. Feeding her. Bathing her. Turning her over. Emptying bedpans.

Day after day, without a single break.

I kept it up for two years before my husband finally couldn't take it anymore.

I filed for divorce and let him keep our son.

The year we divorced, Val graduated from college. He couldn't find a job he liked, so he insisted on studying for the civil service exam. He studied for three years. I supported him unconditionally for all three.

I'd poured half a lifetime of youth and sweat into that family.

I thought that even if I couldn't claim credit, at least my suffering counted for something.

But my mother said I'd never contributed to the family.

Eight million dollars in demolition compensation, and I didn't see a cent.

A shrill ringtone cut through my thoughts.

It was my mother.

"Where are you?"

I looked up and around. "At the peach orchard."

Twenty-five years. Survival of the fittest. The trees had been replanted three times over. The current ones wouldn't bear fruit until next year.

My mother's voice was sharp with displeasure. "Why haven't you come home to cook?"

"Mom, there are some things I need to sort through."

"Everyone's still hungry. Whatever it is, it can wait until after dinner. Get home. Now."

Home? Which home?

The one that was about to be demolished?

I used to have a home. Because of them, I'd thrown it away with my own hands.

I didn't have a home anymore.

I hung up, but my feet kept moving.

In a daze, I walked to the next village and found myself standing in front of my ex-husband's house.

The door was shut.

Sebastian Perry worked in the city now. He'd taken our son there for elementary school.

The five years I'd lived here were the only happy years I could remember.

I stood there for a while, then turned to leave.

But where was I supposed to go?

The neighbor, Mrs. Chavez, came outside and spotted me. She smiled. "Priscilla! I heard your family's place got demolished and they got eight million. Lucky you!"

"You've worked yourself to the bone for them your whole life. Your mother's gotta give you the lion's share to make up for it."

I smiled but didn't say anything.

Mrs. Chavez came closer and took my hand, lowering her voice. "Sebastian never remarried, you know. Says he can't let you go."

"Once the money's divided up, hire a caretaker for your mom and get back together with him. That boy needs his mother."

"You've given them the best years of your life. It's time you started living for yourself."

My whole body went rigid.

My entire life, I'd been busy for them. Living for them. I couldn't remember a single day I'd taken for myself.

I thought about everything I'd given over the past twenty-five years. The future I'd abandoned. My son's gut-wrenching screams the day of the divorce. My mother's words: You've never contributed to this family.

The tears finally came.

"If I didn't get a single cent, would he still want to remarry me?"

Mrs. Chavez stared. "What did you just say?"

The phone rang again. It was Val.

"Sis, where are you? Why aren't you home yet?"

I told him I'd be back soon.

I wiped my tears and said goodbye to Mrs. Chavez.

Back at the house, I tied the apron on again and picked up the spatula. I walked into the kitchen without a word and started cooking.

My mother sat in the main room and nodded with satisfaction.

"See? I told you. Your big sister can handle anything. She's not the type to throw a fit over a little demolition money."