They Faked Poverty to 'Build My Character'—Now I'm Dead

The day I was diagnosed, I folded up the lab report and stuffed it into the very bottom of the drawer.

On the bus ride home, I thought of Mom sighing on the phone last week, saying they still hadn't scraped together enough for this month's payment.

Dinner was plain noodles in clear broth. I picked the poached egg out of my bowl and placed it in my father's as he lay in bed.

I didn't dare tell them I was sick.

I sold my waist-length black hair and quietly went to the hospital for treatment.

I worked three jobs at once, and at the end of the month I earned the first $10,000 of my life.

I transferred all of it to my parents so they could pay rent and debts.

Mom sent a hug emoji.

"Sweetheart, you've worked so hard. Come here, let me hold you."

But little by little, my body dragged itself into the late stage.

Before I died, not wanting to burden them, I went alone to the bridge and jumped.

But right before I hit the water, I received a $20 million transfer from my parents.

Ellie, actually our family is very rich.

The reason we never told you was to build your character—to teach you to remember hardship and appreciate sweetness.

Listening to the voice message, the corner of my mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

So my family was rich all along.

But I was already dying.

——

On the lab report, the words "chronic myeloid leukemia" stabbed into my eyes like needles.

The doctor's voice was calm. And cruel.

"Long-term treatment is required. Prepare yourself—mentally and financially."

I thanked him, stuffed the paper into my bag, and pretended it didn't exist.

It wasn't until I walked out of the hospital that my head started buzzing.

The treatment costs were astronomical. Impossible for me to bear alone.

For Mom and Dad, they'd be devastating.

I pulled out my phone. On the screen was a WeChat message Mom had sent half an hour ago.

Ellie, coming home for dinner this weekend? Your dad keeps asking about you.

I stared at that line, and my nose stung.

Go home? How could I go home?

Tell them I was seriously ill and needed treatment?

I didn't dare. I really didn't dare.

I was so afraid that Mom and Dad—who had already worked themselves to the bone—would suffer because of me.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and typed a reply.

Mom, I have to work overtime. Everything okay at home? Do you have enough money?

The reply came almost instantly.

Don't worry about us. Just focus on work.

It's just that money your dad borrowed from Uncle Gabriel for the hospital… forget it, don't stress. We'll figure it out.

Dad's illness two years ago had emptied our savings. We still owed tens of thousands.

Mom always said it was almost paid off.

But I knew that was just something she said to comfort me.

She barely made anything running her street stall, and Dad couldn't work.

Even pinching every penny, paying it off seemed impossible.

So I reminded myself constantly.

The weight of this family could only rest on my shoulders.

I started frantically hunting for part-time work. Days at the design company. Nights at the convenience store. Delivery runs squeezed in between. Sleep compressed to almost nothing.

My body was breaking down, but whenever I thought of the debt Mom and Dad carried—whenever I pictured that lab report buried in my drawer—I couldn't stop.

I went to the hospital quietly and chose the most conservative treatment plan.

The doctor disagreed, but I insisted.

Dialysis was out of the question for now; the cost was too high.

I got only the most essential medication, using the money from selling my hair to cover the basics.

It was fine. I told myself I could hold on.

At the end of the first month, I received my wages from the design company and convenience store. $10,000 total.

Looking at the number that appeared briefly in my bank account, I didn't hesitate.

I transferred all of it to Mom.

Mom, I got a bonus and project allowance. Use it to pay off the debt. Don't skimp on yourselves.