Before the surgical lights flickered on, I slipped my hand-written suicide note beneath my brother’s pillow. "Wes, I wanted so badly to stay by your side forever." "But Mom and Dad work too hard to make a living. I can't bear to watch them pour every last cent into my treatments." "Besides, the chemo hurts so much. My hair is entirely gone, and I’m not pretty anymore." "I saved up some allowance—it’s in the envelope. Please use it to buy Mom and Dad that orthopedic massage chair they need. Their lower backs are always in so much pain." "The rest of the money is for you. Thank you for taking such good care of me, Wes. From now on, you’ll have to look after Mom and Dad for me." Two years. More than six hundred days and nights of excruciating agony. I had long since made up my mind to find my own release. As I lay there, quietly waiting for the poison I had swallowed to take effect, I heard my brother’s low, muffled voice echoing from the hallway: "Double the dosage. Once the Juilliard early-admission slot is officially transferred to Ivy’s name, I’ll find the best specialists in the country for Lucy. We will save her, I promise." My mother’s voice broke as she choked back a sob, hitting his chest. "You’re going to destroy her! This past year has been pure torture for her. She’s nothing but skin and bones!" Wes’s voice trembled slightly. "Mom, Ivy doesn't have Lucy's raw talent. If we don’t let Lucy endure these two years of struggle, Ivy will never have a chance to stand out. I’ll hire the most elite physical therapists for Lucy’s rehabilitation afterward. If her health takes a turn, I’ll give her my own blood, my own kidney. I’ll even sign over both of our lakefront estates in Tahoe to her." So. My parents were actually incredibly wealthy. And I didn't have leukemia. I wasn't paralyzed. But Wes... I’ve already swallowed the poison. There is no saving me now. 1 I lay perfectly still on the freezing operating table. The anesthesiologist inserted a sharp needle into my vein, murmuring softly, "Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. Just close your eyes and go to sleep. It’ll all be over when you wake up." I nodded. In truth, fear was the furthest thing from my mind. All I felt was a profound sense of relief. Because right before they wheeled me in, I had swallowed an entire bottle of industrial weedkiller. I never planned on surviving today. My parents didn't know. They had stroked my hollow cheeks with tear-filled eyes, whispering words of encouragement. "Don’t be afraid, Lucy. Mom and Dad will be right outside waiting for you." Wes didn't know, either. He had gently squeezed my frail, skeletal arm, his eyes red and brimming with unshed tears. "Our little princess is the strongest girl in the world. When you get out, Wes will take you wherever you want to go." I swallowed my tears and forced a faint smile. "Okay," I whispered. But inside, I was apologizing over and over again. "Mom, Dad, Wes... I’m so sorry." "I’m not as strong as you think I am, and I can’t bear to drag this family down any longer." I let my gaze linger on the three faces I loved most in this world, committing every line to memory. I wanted their faces to be the last things I took with me. I had always believed that my parents and brother loved me more than anything else. We weren't well-off, but my parents never hesitated to give me whatever I wanted. They were so frugal with themselves, yet they never looked at the price tag when it came to buying me pretty dresses or cute stuffed animals. I had wanted to dance, but knowing how expensive ballet school was, I never dared to ask. Still, my parents gritted their teeth and sent me to the finest instructor in the city. That summer, Dad worked construction, his back so stiff from hauling bricks that he could barely stand upright at night. Mom ran her fishmonger stall at the local market by day, and woke up at five in the morning to prep breakfast pastries to sell, her eyes perpetually bloodshot with exhaustion. Even when I cried and lied to them, saying I hated ballet and didn't want to dance anymore, Mom had only wrapped me in a warm, gentle embrace. "Lucy, we named you Lucy because you are the light of our lives," she had whispered. "Whatever our little princess wants, Mom and Dad will work ourselves to the bone to give you. It’s our joy, sweetheart. It’s never a burden." Wes had spoiled me just as much since we were kids. He always gave me the best pieces of food. Whenever my feet ached on the walk home from school, he would carry me on his back without a single complaint. "You’re my little sister," he’d say, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. "Of course I’m going to spoil you." When we grew older, he would stay up past midnight writing out study guides for me so my grades wouldn't slip. He worked odd jobs to buy me birthday gifts he could never afford for himself. So when I overheard the truth... My mind went completely blank. I honestly thought I was hallucinating. We were wealthy. Their struggle, their desperate toil to raise me, was nothing but a carefully orchestrated performance. And those expensive medications they "sacrificed everything" to buy for me weren’t meant to cure me. They were the very things pushing me into this living hell—all to clear the path for Ivy's future. Two years ago, I began feeling chronically ill. Dad had carried me on his back all the way to the clinic, where they diagnosed me with leukemia. I had broken down sobbing. My parents cried with me, holding me tight. "It’s okay, Lucy. We’ll get you the best treatments. We will never give up on you, no matter how much it costs." Wes’s hand had trembled as he held mine, though his voice remained steady and reassuring. "Don’t worry, Lucy. I’m here. Mom and Dad are here. We won't let anything happen to you." Looking back now, of course nothing fatal was supposed to happen to me. Because I never had leukemia in the first place. But the "treatment" began anyway. Over the next two years, countless injections left my once-pale skin bruised and mottled, covered in a web of dark needle marks. I swallowed handfuls of bitter pills that burned my throat and made my stomach churn with nausea. For someone who used to be terrified of pain and hated medicine, I never uttered a single whimper. I swallowed every pill without hesitation, all to spare my family any extra grief. Whenever I saw their eyes redden, I would squeeze out a cheerful smile. "I’m okay, Mom. I’m strong. I can handle this." But the monthly chemo sessions made me vomit violently. I couldn't keep anything down; even when I forced myself to swallow a few spoonfuls of broth, I would end up purging it in the bathroom, spitting up bile and blood. My hair began falling out in thick clumps. Eventually, I had to wear a beanie to hide my bald head. I lay awake night after night, my body wracked with a deep, throbbing ache. But to keep them from worrying, I would bite down on my blanket to muffle my tears. They were sacrificing so much for me, I thought. The least I could do was be brave. But even though I did everything the doctors asked, eating nothing but bland porridge and clear soups, my body continued to waste away. I used to be a little swan, full of life, leaping across the stage. Now, I couldn't even stand. I was confined to a bed, watching my muscles atrophy. The schoolwork I had fought so hard to master began to blur; letters twisted into incomprehensible shapes on the page, leaving me with blinding headaches. I lost my health, my hair, and eventually, my friends, who gradually stopped visiting as the months dragged on. My world shrank to the size of a hospital mattress, surrounded by sterile walls, endless medications, and my family. One evening, after a particularly brutal session that left me dry-heaving until my throat bled, I finally broke down.
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