Chapter 4Faking Poverty, Dying From It

I floated in the center of the opulent living room, staring blankly at them, my heart aching faintly, as if something was gently squeezing it.

So all that tireless exhaustion, all that hardship of struggling for a living, had been nothing but an act they performed.

And all the suffering I'd endured since childhood was just a calculated ploy, "for my own good."

In a daze, I remembered the designer belt I'd found under Dad's bed, which he'd hastily snatched away and hidden, claiming it was a high-quality replica from a street vendor.

I remembered the expensive face cream I'd seen behind Mom's vanity mirror, which she'd said was a trial sample from a friend, not worth much.

I remembered the large, floor-to-ceiling window that flashed by in the background during a video call with Scarlett; I'd asked if she'd moved into a bigger house, but she'd laughed it off, saying it was a colleague's place and she was just visiting.

It turned out that all those moments that had subtly felt off were clues to this elaborate deception.

In this family, only I was like a fool, kept in the dark, living out their fabricated poor life, treading carefully.

That sadness swelled like a tide, then slowly receded.

What's done is done. A stubborn illness like leukemia, perhaps even if they spent all their money, it wouldn't be curable.

Then, they truly would be forced to live that precarious, poverty-stricken life.

At least now, they didn't have to genuinely work tirelessly at a market stand, didn't have to haggle over pennies.

They lived so decently and comfortably, not struggling at all.

I had nothing left to worry about.

Thinking this, my heart felt much more at peace, and I began to float around the bright, large house with curiosity.

Soft carpets, a huge balcony, all sorts of high-end appliances—things I'd only ever seen on TV.

I floated into a room.

The vanity was covered with bottles and jars, the closet door half-open, revealing racks of beautiful clothes.

I recognized it at a glance; this was Scarlett's room, as it was often in the background of her video calls.

Then, I discovered another room.

The walls were a soft pink, the curtains white with lace trim, and the bed was covered with a floral-patterned sheet.

On the bedside table, there was a photo frame.

The photo was of me, perhaps seven or eight years old, wearing that red plaid jacket my sister had passed down, smiling shyly at the camera.

This room... it was prepared for me.

My heart felt gently warmed by something.

I lay on that floral-patterned bed. Although I couldn't feel its softness, I imagined that if I could sleep here, it would be as comfortable as lying on a cloud.

Sunlight streamed through the window, bathing the entire pink room in warmth.

I lay there, watching, and my heart grew sad again.

I knew I would never get to live in this perfect room, prepared just for me.

Time passed, bit by bit.

Suddenly, a phone rang in the room—Mom's old phone.

I floated over to see.

The screen displayed "Ms. Davis," my homeroom teacher's name.

Mom took a deep breath, answered the phone, and her voice instantly switched to that familiar, weary tone.

"Hello, Ms. Davis? Oh, yes, I'm busy at the stand. What's up?"

Ms. Davis's anxious voice faintly carried from the other end. "Luna's mom, I've called several times! I'm glad you finally picked up!"

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry," Mom's voice dropped a bit lower, with just the right amount of apology. "This old phone always runs out of battery; I just turned it on. Is there something happening at school?"

"Luna didn't come to school today and didn't ask any teacher for leave. Is she home now? Is she feeling unwell?"

Mom's grip on the phone visibly tightened.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, and her voice involuntarily rose. "What? Luna didn't go to school today?"