Chapter 2

On the day I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer,

my brother, Julian, was sitting in a first-class cabin flying to Vienna. He was going to perform in a piano competition that should have been mine.

Ever since the kidnapping, Mom had blamed me for everything.

At first, Dad tried to speak up for me. But Mom would shield Julian like a wild lioness protecting her cub, screaming hysterically at Dad:

"Because of her, Julian was traumatized! He has severe PTSD! The doctor said it could affect him for the rest of his life! I will not let Julian suffer even a second of discomfort because of her!"

So, I endured it. Until I turned fifteen, and the diagnosis came. Terminal stomach cancer.

My legs felt like cotton wool as I limped back home.

My stomach felt like it was holding a block of ice—cold, hard, and sharp, constantly stabbing into my insides.

In my pocket, the thin medical report was warm, soaked with the cold sweat from my palms.

The doctor had told me to notify my family immediately and get admitted to the hospital.

I gripped the paper, hesitating for a long time. In the end, I decided to tell them in person.

I needed their help. This time, I really couldn't hold on by myself.

I pushed the door open. The living room was warm and brightly lit. Dad, Mom, and Julian were sitting on the couch together.

They looked like a perfect, happy family, laughing at something on the TV.

The moment the door opened, the smile on Mom’s face vanished. It was replaced by instant, unfiltered disgust.

"Chloe, you finally decided to show up? Do you know what time it is? I told you to go to the school and pick up Julian’s performance suit. Where the hell did you go?"

My hand tightened around the diagnosis sheet in my pocket. "I... I wasn't feeling well. I had to go to the hospital..."

"The hospital? What kind of game are you playing now?"

Mom stood up, walked over, and looked down at me with a sneer. "Oh, I get it. You see Julian going to Vienna, so you feel bitter. Now you're faking an illness to steal his spotlight and get attention?"

Dad frowned slightly and spoke up. "Eleanor, that's enough. She just got home. Let's talk nicely."

"Talk nicely?"

Mom's voice spiked. "What is there to talk about with her? Arthur, look at her miserable, gloomy face! It's bad luck! Julian is about to perform on the biggest stage of his life. Can’t she just let us have one peaceful day?"

Julian stood up from the couch, walking over to Mom's side. He looked at me with pure disdain. "Chloe, cut it out. You do this every single time. Aren't you tired of this act?"

Inside my pocket, my nails tore right through the paper.

The sharp pain in my stomach grew worse, like a thousand needles stabbing me at once.

Looking at their three cold, familiar faces, I felt my knees buckling.

In utter despair, I used every ounce of my remaining strength to whisper words that felt foreign even to my own ears:

"Mom... I'm dying..."