Chapter 2

Maria, the office cleaning lady, asked me with concern, "Sweetie, you’re throwing up so much blood. You should go to the hospital."

I waved my hand, using the sink to push myself up.

Outside, the voices from the cubicles dropped slightly.

"Is she serious? Killing herself just for some internet money."

"Well, she makes more in one stream than we do in half a month."

"Still, it's terrifying. I heard her throwing up just now. It sounded like a pig being slaughtered."

"She must have been a pig in her past life. She eats literally anything."

Just then, my phone rang. To my surprise, it was my mom.

"I’m at the bus station. Where do you live?"

I froze.

It had been three years. This was the first time she had ever come to see me.

"Mom, stay there. I’m coming to get you right now."

At the station exit, my mom was standing there.

"Mom, let’s go. I’ll take you home."

I picked up her heavy luggage and walked her back to my place.

She stood in the middle of my living room, looking around. Her eyes locked onto the empty takeout containers I hadn't had time to throw away.

"Is this what you eat every day?"

"Sometimes I'm just too busy to cook..."

"You make so much money, yet you live in a dump like this?"

I choked up a bit.

"Mom, this apartment is fifteen hundred a month. It’s actually pretty nice..."

"Nice? My foot," she interrupted. "On the bus ride here, I googled you. I saw your live stream."

She didn't look at me. She just stared out the window.

"All those people watching you stuff your face with tons of food. You look ridiculous."

"The folks back home saw it too. If you’re not embarrassed, I am."

I stood by the kitchen door, still holding the fresh groceries I had bought for her.

"Mom, I do this to make a living..."

"A living?" She whipped her head around. "What happens when you eat yourself to death?"

"If you collapse, who’s going to take care of me when I’m old? You’re my only daughter. Who else can I rely on?"

"Richard's eldest son just got into a prep school, and he has another baby now. Both of them are more successful than you'll ever be!"

She sat on the couch and wiped her face. "Fine. I’m hungry. Go make dinner."

Fried fish, garlic shrimp, and chicken soup—I cooked a whole table of food.

But she didn't even look at me. She picked up her fork and started eating.

Watching her eat, I let out a soft laugh.

She paused, her fork hovering in the air. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," I said. "Eat up, Mom. It won't taste good once it gets cold."

She gave me a suspicious look.

I leaned back in my chair. My hand slipped into my pocket, touching the crumpled diagnosis sheet that said I had late-stage stomach cancer. In the end, I couldn't bring myself to say it.