Theater: NovelMaster | Language: English | NEW
Synopsis
"I used your chemo money for the down payment on Leo's new house."
Mom said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather.
I lay in the hospital bed, my mind completely blank.
"Mom... what did you just say?"
She sat by the edge of the bed, peeling an orange without looking up.
"The doctor told us your chances are slim anyway, with or without treatment," she said, her voice completely flat. "Leo was fifty grand short on his down payment, so I gave it to him."
A suffocating weight slammed into my chest. Tears burned behind my eyes as I struggled to speak. "Mom, that was my life-saving money. I worked myself to the bone for that."
She finally looked at me with those chillingly calm eyes. "Your brother needs a house to get married and carry on the family name. Be understanding, Chloe."
Be understanding.
That word had haunted my entire life.
Because I was the older sister, the daughter, I was always expected to yield, to sacrifice, to suffer in silence.
Not this time.
I was literally dying.
The sweet scent of the orange spread through the sterile room, turning my stomach.
I turned my head away, unable to look at her.
"I didn't have a choice," she continued, pieces of orange peel falling between her fingers. "Leo finally found a girl who's willing to marry him. But she made it clear: no house, no wedding."
Mom smiled slightly, holding up three fingers like she’d just struck the deal of a lifetime.
"Fifty thousand dollars can secure Leo a wife and a future. But if we throw it at your treatments, that money is gone for good. You're a smart girl, Chloe. You can do the math."
I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to argue.
My throat was dry, yet my tears kept flowing.
What was the point of arguing? Had I ever won a single battle in that family?
She held out a peeled segment of the orange. Plump, juicy, glistening under the fluorescent lights.
Growing up, an orange slice was the ultimate reward I craved. Only if I got straight A's and obeyed every command was I allowed a tiny bite.
Now, it looked like poison.
When I didn't reach for it, she didn't get mad. She casually tossed it back onto the tray and wiped her fingers with a napkin.
"I already talked to Dr. Evans. We're discharging you tomorrow. Since there's no cure anyway, resting at home is the same thing."
She stood up, grabbed her luxury leather tote, and walked out.
I bought her that bag with my very first paycheck.
The door clicked shut. It sounded like a death sentence.
The room smelled of antiseptic and lingering citrus—a mocking, bitter sweetness.
A hollow laugh escaped my lips. I covered my face, finally letting the tears fall.
An understanding child?
All through childhood, Leo's room overflowed with toys, while I was only allowed his broken hand-me-downs.
When Leo failed his classes, Mom paid thousands for private tutors. When I got into an elite high school, they nearly pulled me out because they didn't want to pay my tuition.
After college, most of my paycheck was handed over to Mom every month under the excuse of "helping the family"—money that went straight into Leo's bottomless pockets.
And now, they were stripping away my right to take another breath.
My chest tightened violently. A harsh cough tore through my lungs, bringing up a metallic taste. I pulled back my hand to find bright red blood smeared across my palm.
Looking at that crimson stain, the last shred of my obedience shattered.
I clenched my fists.
I wasn't going to roll over and die for them.The next morning, Dr. Evans walked into my room with an apologetic look on his face.
"Chloe, your condition is serious, but with aggressive chemo, we can still prolong your life and keep you comfortable." He pushed up his glasses, avoiding my gaze. "However, your mother signed the refusal of treatment and self-discharge papers..."
"Dr. Evans," I interrupted. My voice was raspy from exhaustion, but eerily calm. "If I want to continue the treatment, I'll pay for it myself. I won't put the hospital in a difficult position."
He paused, a flicker of pity crossing his eyes. "Follow-up chemo and targeted therapies are extremely expensive. Plus, you need someone to care for you..."
"I know." I stared straight into his eyes. "Just give me until five o'clock today. Let me stay in this bed until I sort things out. Please."
Perhaps it was the desperation in my eyes, but Dr. Evans nodded after a brief silence. "I can give you until 5:00 PM. But hospital policy is hospital policy."
"Thank you."
Once the medical team left, I forced myself to sit up and grabbed my cracked, outdated phone from the nightstand.
My contact list was painfully short. Mostly distant coworkers.
Friends? I had lost them all over the years because I was constantly working to bail my family out.
My first call was to my former department manager.
"Mr. Jenkins, it's Chloe. I wanted to check on the status of my severance package and last month's paycheck."
When I got diagnosed, the company gently laid me off. I had accepted it, foolishly thinking my family would have my back. What a pathetic joke.
"Chloe, the paperwork is still with HR," Jenkins said in a practiced corporate tone. "It'll take a few more days. You know how the approval chain works."
"I desperately need that money for chemo, Mr. Jenkins," I pleaded, trying not to sound completely broken. "Could you please expedite it? Even just part of my final paycheck?"
"I'll see what I can do, but no promises. Focus on resting, okay?" He hung up before I could say another word.
I stared at the black screen, a wave of helplessness threatening to drown me.
The world was vast, yet there was nowhere for me to turn.
No. There is still hope.
That fifty thousand dollars was mine. I earned it. I had to take it back.
Taking a deep breath, I fought through the nausea and changed out of my hospital gown.
In the bathroom mirror, the woman looking back was horrifying. Pale skin, sunken eyes, patchy hair from early treatments, wasting away to bone.
Ugly.
No wonder my own mother was so eager to throw me away.Before the hospital could kick me out, I discharged myself.
I took a cab back to the house I used to call home.
Unlocking the door, the sound of laughter instantly greeted me.
Leo and his girlfriend, Vanessa, were sprawled on the couch watching TV, a spread of takeout and snacks on the coffee table.
Mom walked out of the kitchen carrying a roasted chicken, wearing a warm, loving smile I hadn't seen in years.
A picture-perfect family.
And I was an unwelcome intruder.
The laughter died the second they saw me.
Leo scowled, visibly annoyed. "What are you doing here? Mom said she was shipping you out of town to rest."
Vanessa, wearing heavy makeup and stylish clothes, looked me up and down with open disgust, as if I were carrying the plague.
Mom slammed the platter onto the table, her face darkening. "Didn't I tell you to wait at the hospital? I was going to pick you up this afternoon! What are you doing wandering around?"
She marched over, trying to push me back toward the front door. "Get out. Don't go scaring Leo's girlfriend."
I stepped aside, dodging her hand, and looked her dead in the eye. "Where is my money? The fifty thousand dollars for my treatment."
Her eyes flickered, but she instantly went on the offensive. "Your money? That was family savings! Your father and I decide how to spend it! Securing a home for your brother is our top priority!"
"That was my life-saving money!" The rage I had bottled up for years finally exploded. "I've worked for seven years, handing over half my paycheck every single month! At least thirty-five grand of that money was earned by me!"
"Earned by you?" Mom sneered, pointing a finger in my face. "Without this family raising you, you wouldn't have earned a single penny! We raised you, and now you want to nickel-and-dime us? You ungrateful little parasite!"
Leo stood up, stepping in front of Vanessa with a look of pure contempt. "Chloe, stop making a scene! It's just an illness, why are you being so dramatic? Mom said the doctors can't cure it anyway, so why waste good money? Me buying a house and getting married is what actually matters for this family!"
Listening to their venom, watching their smug, entitled faces, my blood ran cold.
"So my life is worth less than your house, is that it, Leo?" I asked, staring at him.
Leo flinched under my glare, but quickly puffed out his chest. "Yeah, so what? You're practically dead already! You want to drag the whole family down with you into your grave?"
Practically dead.
They had already written me off.
Even when the doctors hadn't given up on me, my own family had already dug my grave.
Mom chimed in, feeling justified. "Hear that? Your brother is right! Start thinking about this family for once! Stop being so selfish!"
Selfish. Wanting to live was considered "selfish."
A sudden laugh bubbled up from my throat, tears spilling over.
I leaned against the wall, my knees giving out under my frail weight.
"Fine. I'm selfish."
I swallowed the laughter, scanning the room.
"If there's no room for me in this house, then we settle everything right now."I dragged my trembling body over to the old desk in the corner and yanked open the drawer.
That was where the family kept legal documents, old receipts, and bank statements.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Mom shrieked, lunging forward.
"Finding the records of every single transfer I made to your account!" I shoved her hands away with a sudden surge of adrenaline that surprised even myself. "Give me my social security card and my bank cards! If you want to cut ties, give me back what's mine!"
"You're out of your mind!" Mom screamed, clawing at my arms.
Leo charged in, grabbing me by the shoulders and shoving me violently. "Get the hell away from our stuff!"
My emaciated body had no strength to resist.
I stumbled back hard, slamming my lower back directly into the sharp corner of the dining table. Agony exploded through my spine, my vision flashing black.
Another violent wave of coughing seized me. I collapsed onto the floor, clutching my chest, coughing so hard it felt like my organs were tearing apart.
Vanessa let out a shriek and ducked behind Leo.
Mom and Leo froze, startled by how frail I really was.
Taking advantage of their shock, I ignored the blinding pain and reached deep into the bottom of the drawer. My fingers wrapped around an old envelope.
Inside were my IDs, two bank cards, and several crumpled paper slips showing past bank transfers I had logged over the years.
I clutched the envelope against my chest like a lifeline.
"Give me... my money back..." I gasped, spitting blood onto the linoleum, my glare burning into them. "Or I'm taking you to court. I'll sue you for grand theft and medical neglect!"
"Sue us?" Mom scoffed, though her eyes darted nervously. "Go ahead! What judge is going to listen to someone with one foot in the grave? I'm your mother! Using your money is my right!"
"Let a judge decide that," I whispered, pulling myself up using the table leg. "Even if I die, I'll drag your names through the mud first. Leo, let's see if Vanessa still wants to marry you once she finds out your house was bought with your dying sister's blood money!"
Leo's face went completely pale. He glanced back at Vanessa.
Vanessa stood frozen, her eyes filled with shock and suspicion.
"Shut your damn mouth!" Leo yelled, lunging toward me again.
"Enough!"
A deep voice cut through the chaos.
My dad, who had been smoking quietly out on the balcony the entire time, finally stepped inside.
He frowned at the mess, his cold eyes landing on my pale, blood-stained face.
"Stop this pathetic circus," he muttered, turning to Mom. "Go get eight thousand dollars from the safe and give it to her."
"Eight thousand?!" Mom shrieked. "Why should she get anything? That's Leo's money!"
"Give it to her!" Dad's voice dropped, laced with chilling finality. "Let her take it and get out. Don't let her drop dead in this house. It's bad luck."
Eight thousand.
My fifty thousand had shrunk to eight thousand.
Barely enough for two or three chemo sessions.
Tossed at me like table scraps to keep me from "bringing bad luck" to their doorstep.
I stared at the man I had called "Dad" for over twenty years. A profound, icy numbness seeped deep into my bones.
In the end, I took the eight thousand dollars, grabbed my IDs and personal documents, and walked out the door.
Behind me, Mom kept cursing, Leo glared with pure hatred, and Dad never looked at me again.I had nowhere to go.
I searched online and rented the cheapest furnished room I could find by the week.
The walls were cracked and peeling, and street noise filtered in through the thin windows, but at least I had a roof over my head.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, looking at the $8,000 in my account, despair crept back in.
Eight grand was a drop in the bucket for advanced cancer treatments.
Next round of chemo, targeted drugs, blood panels... this money wouldn't last two months.
I had to make money. A lot of it. Fast.
But in my condition, what could I do?
No physical labor. No regular 9-to-5 company would hire a walking corpse.
I scrolled through freelance gig boards until I saw a listing: "Urgent: Remote Data Entry Clerk. Daily payout. Basic software skills required. High attention to detail."
Remote? Daily pay?
I messaged the poster immediately via Snapchat.
They replied within minutes. I hid my illness, only stating that I was recently laid off and available for immediate remote work.
They sent over a test file: 2,000 entries to format and log within two hours, with an error rate under 0.3%.
I booted up my battered laptop and started typing.
My head spun. Spots danced in my vision. My fingers shook uncontrollably from weakness.
Keep going. Don't stop.
Two hours later, I submitted the file.
The reply came back shortly:
"Error rate: 0.15%. You're hired. Daily assignments sent by 8:00 AM. Payouts processed every evening via PayPal. $25 per day."
Twenty-five dollars.
Not even enough for a bottle of prescription anti-nausea meds.
But it was a start.
I closed the chat, inhaled deeply, and began scouring every freelance platform, Upwork, and Craigslist for anything I could do from bed.
Virtual assistant gigs, proofreading, simple graphic templates, commercial copywriting...
I didn't care what it was. As long as it paid and could be done on a laptop, I took it.
I wanted to live.
The following weeks blurred into an agonizing routine of work and physical pain.
I operated like a clockwork machine. Apart from forced sleep and basic outpatient checkups at a public clinic, my eyes were glued to the screen.
When dizziness hit, I leaned against the desk.
When I threw up, I rinsed my mouth and kept typing.
When I coughed up blood, I wiped my chin and swallowed generic coagulants.
I stretched that $8,000 as far as it would go. Apart from rent and cheap groceries, every cent went toward keeping the tumor from spreading.
I knew I was walking a tightrope, but I had no other choice.
Occasionally, through former coworkers who still checked in on me, snippets of news from home reached my ears.
Leo had bought his suburban townhouse. Wedding preparations were underway, and Vanessa's parents were thrilled.
Mom bragged to all our relatives about what an incredible son she had raised, never once mentioning the daughter fighting for breath in a rundown rental.
They were thriving, pretending I had never existed.
My heart was completely numb to it.
Survival was my only mission.
One afternoon, while drafting a pitch deck for a startup client, I stumbled upon a case study about crowdfunding.
The realization hit me like lightning.
Why hadn't I thought of that?
Baring my trauma to the world felt terrifying. But compared to dying, what did pride matter?
I spent the night researching GoFundMe, studying the guidelines and verification steps.
Detailed medical diagnoses, itemized bills, an honest story, third-party verification...
I gathered all my medical records, lab reports, and billing statements. I took a raw, unfiltered photo of my emaciated face and bruised veins, and wrote out my story with brutal honesty.
I didn't exaggerate the cruelty. I simply laid out the bare facts: worked for years to support my family, savings drained by relatives upon diagnosis, currently unable to afford life-saving chemo.
I shared the link with three former colleagues I still trusted, asking them to help verify and repost it.
Then began the agonizing wait.
On day one, the campaign barely moved. A few colleagues threw in $20 or $50.
Then came the cynical comments online:
"Is this even real? So many GoFundMe scams these days."
"Where's her family? No parents would do this."
"Looks sad, but who knows..."
My stomach sank.
Was my last lifeline about to snap?
Chapters (5)
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Watch & Promotions
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