A Last Wish

I stood in the hospital's third-floor corridor, my fingertips clutching the freshly printed diagnosis certificate. The paper was so thin it pressed into my knuckles, paling their color; the characters 'Terminal cancer' pierced my eyes like an ice-wrapped awl, painfully slow to sink in, making it impossible to open my eyes. The incandescent lamp above hummed softly, its harsh white light falling on the blue tiles, casting a cold, steely gleam. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the coughs from the ward and the wheeling sound of the treatment cart, pressing the weight of 'despair' into my heart. Tears fell onto the diagnosis certificate, blurring wet stains; I hurried to wipe them away, but only made them more numerous. In the end, I could only bow my head and press the back of my hand against my forehead, my shoulders trembling slightly—I dared not cry aloud, fearing the doctors or nurses might see, and more so that once I started, I wouldn't be able to hold myself together. The phone in my pocket suddenly vibrated; the touch against my thigh made my entire body stiffen. The words "Mom (Lisa Carter)" flashed on the screen, but my throat tightened as if something was lodged there. Taking a deep breath, I forced my voice to remain steady and pressed the answer button. Before I could speak, Lisa Carter's voice struck my ears like a block of ice: "Whitney, immediately transfer the property of your city house to your brother Harry Lynn." I froze, the hand holding the phone instinctively tightening, the corners of the diagnosis certificate crushed and misshapen. It felt as if a wad of cotton were lodged in my throat; after a long struggle, I managed to force out a few words: "Mom, I..." "You what?" Lisa Carter cut me off abruptly, her tone laden with impatience: "Harry Lynn is getting married; the girl said she won't marry without a house." "You're just a girl. Having a job in the city is enough. Why do you need so many houses? You can't take them with you to the grave." I leaned against the cold wall, the chill of the tiles seeping through my shirt into my skin, climbing up my spine and making me shiver. Tears fell once again, striking the phone screen and rendering Lisa Carter's voice indistinct. I bit my lip, struggling to speak of my medical condition, even if just to draw a sliver of concern: "Mom, I was just diagnosed..." "Diagnosed with what?" Lisa Carter had no patience to listen, her tone growing more urgent: "Stop making useless excuses. Handle the property transfer this weekend, or I'll go to your company and make a scene—let your colleagues see how you treat your own younger brother!" I lowered my head to look at the diagnosis certificate; the ink remained faintly warm, but my heart felt as if it had plunged into an ice cellar. It turned out that my body, my life, mattered less than my brother's marital home. "Good." I heard my own voice, light and insubstantial, as if it were not my own. After I spoke, all my strength drained away; my body slid down the wall, nearly collapsing. From the other end of the line came Lisa Carter's satisfied laughter, sharp and grating in my ears: "That's how it should be. Family members must support one another. You are the elder sister; helping your brother is your duty." "I have other matters to attend to. Goodbye." A busy signal sounded. I sank to the floor, clutching the phone to my chest, my face buried in my knees, and finally broke down in tears. Someone passed through the corridor; their footsteps paused briefly before softly receding. No one asked me what was wrong. I felt like a child abandoned by the entire world, accompanied only by the cold floor and the acrid disinfectant. I do not know how long had passed; my legs had gone numb from squatting before I slowly stood up. I folded the diagnosis certificate and placed it in my pocket close to my body, as if carrying a bomb ready to explode at any moment. Stepping out of the hospital, the sunlight was so glaring that I had to squint. Cars came and went on the road, horns blaring incessantly; no one knew I had just been sentenced to 'death,' nor that my mother was demanding the sole family property. I walked to the bus stop and waited for the bus home. The people on the platform either looked down at their phones or chatted; only I, like an outsider, stood in the corner feeling a coldness spreading deep within my heart. The bus arrived, and I followed the crowd onboard, finding a seat by the window. The street scenes outside the window retreated, much like my more than twenty years of life—seemingly moving forward, yet never able to escape the constraints of 'home.' When I was a child, if there was delicious food at home, it was given to Harry Lynn first; new clothes were also bought for him first, and I wore the hand-me-downs he left behind. When I asked my mother why, she always said, 'You are the elder sister; you must yield to your younger brother.' Later, when I began working and earning money, my mother became even more relentless. Today she demanded I buy a phone for Harry Lynn; tomorrow she wants me to pay the rent. I have never refused—I thought that if I did enough, my mother would treat me a little better. But now I realize, I was wrong. In this family, I am always the one who can be sacrificed; Harry Lynn is the one they cherish. My chest began to ache again, not a physical pain, but a pain in my heart, more intense than cancer.