I was in a restaurant kitchen, scrubbing dishes. The owner took pity on me and pulled me aside to share some dumplings.
New Year's Day.
My parents took Cynthia hiking to a temple shrouded in mist at the mountain's peak, where they made wishes together.
I visited Grandma's grave.
Day two.
They cruised around the harbor on a yacht, sipping red wine.
I sold roasted sweet potatoes in the bitter cold.
Day three.
They went skiing.
Cynthia took a fall, and my parents fussed over her like she might break.
That same morning, I slipped on the icy road while pushing my vegetable cart to the market. I bit down on the pain, hauled myself up, and kept going.
One month.
The three of them lived it up without a care in the world.
I ran myself ragged.
The day before my flight, I bought a bouquet of carnations and laid them at Grandma's grave.
"Grandma," I whispered. "Someday I'm going to build a bigger place—one that can take in even more kids."
That same day, my parents texted me:
"We're sorry, Cecilia. We just couldn't scrape together enough for tuition and living expenses."
"Maybe defer for a year? Start next fall instead?"
I laughed coldly, didn't bother replying, and boarded my flight.
Orientation day.
I was hauling my suitcase toward the registration building when a luxury car came speeding up and cut me off.
Cynthia stepped out, laughing at something our parents said. All three of them looked like they'd just stepped out of a magazine spread.
I froze.
Our eyes met.
The smiles on my parents' faces turned to stone. "Cecilia?" my father stammered. "What are you doing here?"
