The Riverside Villa
Outside the window, leaves from the plane tree twirled as they fell, sunlight filtering through the gaps, dazzling my eyes. The patches of light flickered on and off, like the slow countdown of my days.
My phone vibrated. A message from the agent: "Ms. Collins, the river-view duplex is still available. The owner is eager to emigrate and has lowered the price by another five percent. We can close the deal today."
I recalled Mother's phone call three months ago. Mahjong sounds drifted through the receiver. Her voice was tinged with envy: "Mr. Lee's daughter next door married a building materials merchant and moved into a duplex. Their living room is big enough for square dancing."
She paused, then added, "You've been out there for ten years; why haven't you been so lucky?"
"Mom, when I come back, I'll buy one for you too." At that time, I didn't know my body was already riddled with sores; I only wanted to make Mother happy, never imagining that this promise would have to be fulfilled at the end of my life.
With trembling fingers, I opened the transfer interface. As I sent the two hundred thousand deposit, I stared blankly at the screen—this was my savings from ten years: squeezing into a small partitioned room in an urban village after graduation, cooling myself with a damp towel in the summer; working as a project assistant, pulling all-nighters for three months straight; when I was carried out of the company with gastric bleeding, I was still clutching the proposal; last year, after being scraped by an electric bike, the five thousand compensation all went to my family.
This money, soaked in sweat and pain, spent to bring a smile to Mother, somehow feels worth it.
Before going home, I dyed my hair black. Chemotherapy hadn't started yet, but I knew it would cause hair loss. I feared Mother's questions, and even more, I feared Older Sister's tear-filled voice saying, "Younger Sister doesn't like me; she doesn't even want her hair to be black like mine."
In the mirror, my face was pale, the skin beneath my eyes darkened, but when I thought of Mother's smile as she received the Property Ownership Certificate, the corner of my mouth still lifted slightly.
"Only three months left. If I can make Mom happy and the family reunite for a few days, it will be worth it." I whispered to myself in front of the mirror, pressing gently on my aching stomach. This pain, compared to fulfilling Mother's dream, hardly mattered.
The car entered the old alley. From a distance, I saw Mother standing at the doorway, wearing the mulberry silk floral blouse I had bought last year — she had thought it too expensive and kept it tucked away, yet today she had deliberately worn it.
I hurried forward with my suitcase and handed her the folder containing the Property Ownership Certificate, my voice laced with hope: "Mom, the villa is bought. The transfer can be completed today."
Mother's eyes settled on the folder, but there was no trace of the surprise I'd expected. Instead, she kept turning it over, her brow slowly knitting, as if scrutinizing a forgery.
"Such an important matter as buying a house — why didn't you discuss it with the family?" Her tone was thick with blame, her fingertips rubbing the folder as if it were a hot coal.
I froze, the warmth in my chest instantly turning cold: "I wanted to surprise you. Haven't you always wanted a duplex?"
"Surprise?" Mother sneered, her gaze sharp and cold. "You're quite calculating. Last time your older sister paid ten for a taxi, and you still haven't repaid her."
Her words pierced my heart, my ears burning — last month when they visited my city, my older sister took a taxi alone to a popular spot and never mentioned the fare afterward. I thought she had forgotten, but Mother remembered it all this time.
"Mom, that ten was the older sister's own expense for visiting the attraction. At that time, the plane ticket, hotel, meals, and even her branded handbag were all paid for by me, totaling nearly thirty thousand. Why focus only on this ten?" My throat tightened as I tried to explain.
"Don't bring up these things!" Mother waved her hand as if shooing flies. "You keep talking about how much money you've spent, as if throwing some money around makes you special. Don't you consider us at all?"
As she spoke, she squeezed my arm harshly, her nails digging almost into the flesh, the pain making me gasp, tears threatening to fall.
My older sister came out of the room, wearing the cashmere sweater I gave her—it was something I had saved two months' salary to buy. At the time, she said the color was "old-fashioned" and threw it in the wardrobe, but today she was wearing it.
She held Oliver, the pure white dog, its fur groomed cleanly.
"Mom, stop, the younger sister is busy; she probably forgot about the ten." She tugged at Mother's sleeve, trying to reconcile, but her eyes held a faint triumph, and when they met mine, there was an indescribable meaning.
Father came out behind her, silent, but gently patted my sister's hand, then turned and stared at me with eyes as cold as ice: "Rachel, don't defend her! She's selfish! What good is sending money every year? She's immature—no different from an ATM that just dispenses cash."
I stood rooted to the spot, blood freezing instantly, breath growing shallow — all these ten years of effort, to them, I was nothing but an unfeeling ATM; the money earned from overtime and the things saved through frugality were just what I was supposed to do, not even a single word of "thank you" in return.
The transfer hall was crowded and noisy, filled with the sharp scent of disinfectant, and a dull ache gnawed at my stomach. Just as I was about to call the agent, Mother suddenly snatched the Property Ownership Certificate and pressed it into Older Sister's hands.
"This house will be transferred to your sister, and you can buy another one for the family." Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were saying, "Today we eat rice."
"Mom!" I couldn't believe my ears. Snatching back the Property Ownership Certificate, my fingers went white from gripping it tightly. "This was bought with ten years of my hard-earned money! How can you just give it away like that?"
"I am your mother. Your things belong to the family. What's wrong with giving it to your sister?" Mother's voice suddenly sharpened, drawing the attention of those around her. "I've raised you all these years—so what's wrong with you buying your sister a house? Your sister suffers from depression and needs care; you're on your own out there, renting a basement, and you can still manage!"
Older Sister's eyes reddened just in time as she leaned against Father's chest, her shoulders trembling, as if deeply wronged: "Dad, Mom, please stop arguing. It's my fault; I shouldn't have asked for Younger Sister's house. Living in the old house is fine."
"You're not wrong!" Father patted my sister on the back, glaring at me even more fiercely. "It's your younger sister who doesn't understand! She barely comes home once a year. Why would she need such a nice house? A floor mat would be enough! What's more important than your recovery?"
My stomach churned violently, pain breaking into a cold sweat, my vision darkening. I grasped the pillar to steady myself.
I overheard them discussing the room arrangements: the master bedroom on the first floor for our parents, the large room upstairs for my older sister, a small room as Oliver's doghouse, and even a maid's room left over. Not once did they mention me, as if there was no place for me in this house.
I realized that in this family, I didn't even have an inch of space to call my own.
Seeing my pale face, my older sister came over, blinking, her eyes even redder, and with a seemingly 'considerate' tone said, 'But the house was bought by my younger sister. Why not let her and Oliver live in the small room next to mine? I don't mind, and Oliver is well-behaved.'
'Nonsense!' Mother immediately shielded my older sister behind her. 'Oliver is the family's hero. How could we let him suffer? Your sister's recovery from depression depended on Oliver; do you want her to relapse?'
Father's face darkened as he reproached, "How can you be so thoughtless! Fighting with a dog over a room—aren't you ashamed? Oliver is more sensible than you; at least he keeps your sister company. Besides giving money, what else do you do?"
A surge of rage rushed to my head, my voice trembling but resolute: "I bought this house with my own hard-earned money. Don't I even have the right to live here with the dog?"
"Listen to what you're saying!" Mother screeched like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "We raised you all these years only to have you keep score with your own family? Your sister's illness is because of you! Remember how from childhood you had to yield to her, and you've forgotten all that? If you hadn't been fighting with her over everything, would she have fallen into depression?"
I shivered all over, suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness. Memories surfaced: when my older sister was first diagnosed with depression, my parents devoted all their attention to her. I had to stop doing my homework to bring her tea and rub her back; the toys I bought with my pocket money had to be given to her; Once, I had a high fever of 39 degrees. My father was about to take me to the hospital, but my sister said she wanted cream cake, so he put me down and went to buy it. When he came back, my fever had climbed to 39.5 degrees.
I still remember my sister's old dog, Pepper. One day after school, I saw my sister digging a hole in the yard, with Pepper's body lying beside it, already cold.
"It disturbed my nap, so I gently pinched it, not expecting it to be so fragile." My older sister shrugged it off lightly, showing no trace of sorrow on her face.
I cried as I sought solace from my mother, but she reprimanded me for being overly sensitive: "It's just a dog. If it dies, it dies. Don't upset your sister — she suffers far more when she's ill!"
Later, when my parents returned, my sister cried, accusing me of killing Pepper. I desperately tried to explain, only to be met with a slap from my father — it made my ears ring and half my face swell. I was forced to kneel in the yard all night, until the next day when the cold nearly made me faint, yet no one came to help me.
They always say that without me, my older sister wouldn't have fallen ill, so I must yield to her, give unconditionally. But now, I am the one gravely ill, the one they treat like an "ATM," and I can no longer bear this life.
Mother impatiently pushed me, and I staggered back two steps, the pain in my stomach intensifying. "What are you standing there for? Hurry the agent to handle the paperwork! Don't delay your sister moving into the new house!"
Numbly, I pulled out my phone and walked to the lobby door. The wind stung my face, blowing the wetness back into my eyes.
I dialed the agent's number, my voice eerily calm: "Manager Wilson, halt the villa transfer, cancel the deal, you don't need to refund the deposit."
After hanging up, I called Lawyer Clark again — before, I had said in my will that my assets would go to my parents after I die. But now, I've changed my mind.
"Lawyer Clark, starting this month, please stop sending my parents living expenses."
I want to revise my previous will. All my assets, including the deposit paid on the villa and all the money in my bank accounts, will be donated to the Animal Protection Foundation.
Lawyer Clark paused, surprised: "Ms. Collins, have you had an accident? Do you need assistance?"
I smiled faintly, tears threatening to fall: "It's nothing. I've just come to terms with it. Some things aren't worth holding onto."
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