I was diagnosed with terminal cancer and wanted to ask my wealthy parents for 100 dollars to buy a burial suit, but they scolded me for three hours.
“Do you know that 100 dollars could support children in poverty-stricken areas for a long time? How did I end up with such a wasteful child?”
“How could you possibly have cancer, being so pampered your whole life? If you’re really sick, go ahead and die. Prove to me that you’re sick!”
I sat hopelessly outside the hospital, feeling the two coins left in my pocket—just enough for the bus home. I hadn’t eaten a full meal in days, yet my real parents were spending a fortune to spoil my sister, renting out Disneyland just for her.
Meanwhile, they left me in a cold, remote basement, calling it “tough love”.
Back in the basement, I held my only possession, a doll that had been mine since childhood, and I swore I would never go back home.
Just as I was dozing off, my father called. I shakily answered, only to hear his furious voice on the other end.
“Where did you get all that money in your account? You thief, did you steal from the family again? I transferred all the money in your account to your sister! She’s not a waste like you!”
But the 20,000 dollars in my account was from a part-time job I had done last month.
I clenched my fists, feeling a bitter lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow. I had hoped they would save me, but
