They Faked Poverty to 'Build My Character'—Now I'm DeadChapter 1

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.