They Call Me Unfilial
But the steam in the kitchen, filled with the scent of mugwort, still makes my back sticky with heat.
I fix my eyes on the mobile phone screen, my fingers scrolling through one comment after another.
Every single word felt like shards of ice, pricking my fingertips until they went numb.
The clay pot on the stove was still simmering.
Inside was the mugwort bath tonic brewed for Father David Lincoln—he has been paralyzed for three years, and every day after meals he must soak in it for an hour.
After the bath, he needs a massage.
From his shoulders down to his ankles, if I press too lightly, he complains of pain; if I press too hard, he accuses me of deliberately tormenting him.
At night, it is even more restless.
Even if I help him to the bathroom before sleep, later in the night I can still hear him cry out, "I'm wet," loud enough to wake the neighbors upstairs.
Not long ago, Madam Clark even came knocking at the door.
"Fiona, your father shouldn't keep calling out at night. My grandson is about to take his college entrance exam."
I could only bow my head and apologize, promising to be more careful next time.
Later, I simply started sleeping on the floor in his room.
My bedding was right next to the wheelchair, so whenever he made a sound, I could wake up immediately.
It has been three years.
I haven't watched a complete movie, haven't gone shopping with friends even once, and even taking a hot shower has to be carefully timed.
The mobile phone screen was still on.
I opened that account called "a filial family's daily," and my heart sank as if it were weighed down with lead.
The account description says: "The three siblings are striving out in the world. The youngest sister, Fiona Lincoln, uses the living expenses to care for our paralyzed father. The surveillance footage captures our real daily life."
The account is run by my brother, Eric Lincoln.
Scrolling down, there are more than 1,200 videos.
The first video was posted on the exact day I quit my job and came home.
I clicked on one at random.
In the footage, I had just laid down beside the bed to rest when my father's cries woke me up.
He held his waist, saying, "The pain is unbearable." Half asleep, I reached out to rub it, my eyes not fully open.
The video caption read: "An elderly father cries out in pain late at night, yet his daughter wears a face full of impatience. Where is the filial duty?"
The comment section exploded instantly.
"This woman looks so cold-hearted, takes money but doesn't do her part!"
"When my grandmother was paralyzed, my mother stayed up all night by her side. She's nothing like this half-hearted approach."
I opened another post.
It showed me feeding my father his blood pressure medication.
He kept calling the pills 'poison' and insisted on breaking them apart, staring at them for a long time. When the medicine dissolved in his mouth, he complained of the bitterness and spat so much that my hand was covered.
I could only quickly get the medicine into him and help him swallow it with warm water.
But in the video, my actions were edited to appear fast and rough.
The caption read: "Forcing medicine! The paralyzed father is angry but cannot speak out; the daughter's attitude is cold and heartless."
The comments were even harsher.
"This is outright abuse!"
"Mr. Lincoln used to be a primary school teacher, such a gentle man—how could he raise someone like this?"
My fingers trembled as I scrolled down through the comments one by one.
Not a single clip showed me combing his hair, changing the clean sheets, or crouching on the floor to wipe the porridge he spilled on his wheelchair.
Only the edited 'evidence' is used to brand me as an unfilial girl.
The clay pot suddenly boiled over.
The smell of mugwort mixed with a burnt scent drifted over, jolting me back to reality.
"Fiona! The water's cold!"
Father's voice came from the bedroom, carrying a trace of impatience.
I turned off the stove, poured the mugwort soup into the wooden tub, and hurried over.
Father sat in his wheelchair; when he saw me enter, a flash of satisfaction crossed his eyes but quickly vanished.
"Where's the soup?"He lifted his chin.
"It's just brewed; I'll let it cool for two minutes and then make it for you."I placed the wooden bucket by his feet.
He suddenly frowned, leaning his head toward me: "Look at my neck, is there a bug?"
My heart skipped a beat.
Last time in the comments, people accused me of 'hitting Father' just because when he said there was a bug on his neck, I tapped it once with a tissue.
At that time, he even wiped away tears and said I was 'too harsh.'
Now he's doing the same thing again.
I stared at his neck, saw no bug, but noticed a faint smile hidden behind his ear.
"There are no bugs, Dad."My tone was as flat as water.
He paused momentarily, then raised his voice, "How can there be none? It itches a lot! Hurry up and pat it!"
I didn't move, just looked at him and said, "What if patting it hurts?"
His face darkened. "You girl, how dare you talk to me like that? I am your father!"
At that moment, my mobile phone rang—it was my eldest sister, Mary Lincoln.
I answered; her voice cut like a knife. "Fiona Lincoln, are you crazy? You talked back to Dad on the surveillance footage?"
"We give you two thousand every month for living expenses—not for you to be disrespectful to Dad!"
"If you don't want to take care of him, just say so. We can hire a caregiver. Don't just take up space without doing anything!"
I gripped the mobile phone tightly, my knuckles turning white.
"At first, you said you didn't trust caregivers and told me to quit my job and come home."My voice trembled slightly.
"So what if you quit your job? That lousy job only earned you a few thousand a month. Is it more important than caring for Dad?"Mary Lincoln's voice grew sharper. "Don't be ungrateful! If we hadn't supported you, you would have starved long ago!"
"Supported me?"I suddenly laughed, tears streaming down my face. "For the past three years, I've slept only four hours a day, bathing and feeding Dad. Has any of you come back even once? Has anyone asked if I'm tired?"
There was a brief silence on the other end, then Mary Lincoln sneered coldly, "You're keeping score with us? You're the daughter; isn't it your duty to take care of Dad?"
"Unreasonable!" she said before hanging up.
I stood there, tears falling onto the phone screen.
The sun outside was bright, but it couldn't reach my heart.
The phone chimed again; it was an update from 'A Filial Family's Daily.'
The title read: "Daughter argues with sister, attitude rude, elderly father wiping tears nearby."
In the video, my back faced the camera, only half my face visible—I clearly appeared to be talking back.
Father sat beside me, wiping the corners of his eyes with his sleeve, looking utterly pitiful.
Comments started flowing in again.
"This woman is truly ungrateful!"
"Sister is right; caring for our dad is a duty, and she even dares to complain!"
"If she were my daughter, I would have slapped her long ago!"
I sat on the living room sofa, reading those comments, suddenly feeling drained.
The "Farmhouse Free-Range Eggs" father wants require a forty-minute bus ride out to the suburbs to buy.
He says, "Porridge has to be boiled for three hours to taste good," so I have to get up at five in the morning to start the fire.
He said, "Clothes have to be hand-washed to be truly clean," so I squatted by the basin, scrubbing until the skin on my fingers peeled.
They don't see any of this.
They only watch the edited surveillance footage and label me 'unfilial.'
I got up, took my wallet, and went out.
This time, I didn't go to the suburbs; instead, I went to the supermarket at the entrance of the neighborhood.
On the shelves were Farmhouse Free-Range Eggs, no different from those bought in the suburbs.
I bought a pound and carried it back.
Passing the storage room downstairs, I saw the door wasn't properly closed.
From inside came my father's voice, strong and clear, nothing like someone paralyzed.
"Eric Lincoln, how is the account management going now?"
"Dad, don't worry, this month we've earned even more than last month!" Eric Lincoln's voice came through. "The comment section is flooded with people criticizing Fiona Lincoln, and the attention is overwhelming!"
"That's good then."Father smiled, "This girl is just honest; if you ask her to do something, she does it."
"But pretending to be paralyzed every day is exhausting. When will it ever end?"
"Soon, Dad," my second sister Lily Lincoln interrupted, "Once we earn a bit more money, we'll sell the house and move away. Then who will still care about Fiona Lincoln?"
"Exactly," Eric Lincoln agreed, "With her limited ability, she wouldn't survive without us. Besides, the house was never hers; it belongs to the three of us."
"And Dad," Lily Lincoln added, "next time you cause trouble, make her even more overwhelmed—like breaking a bowl or arguing with you. That way, the video will get more attention."
Father's voice carried a smile: "Don't worry, I know what to do. Fiona listens to me the most, and even if she's a bit upset, she wouldn't dare do anything else."
I stood outside the door as the bag of eggs in my hand fell to the ground with a 'crack.'
The eggs shattered, the golden yolk spilling out and sticking to my shoes.
I took out my mobile phone and pressed the record button.
The laughter inside continued, piercing my ears like needles.
It turns out that the three years of caregiving were all a lie.
I had quit my job and given up my life, only to be met with their schemes and mockery.
I knelt down, turned off the recording, and typed on the mobile phone screen with my fingers.
First, I searched for "how to start a live stream," then looked up "how to use a hidden camera."
Then I stood up, swept the broken eggshells into the trash, and turned to leave the neighborhood.
I went to the bathhouse first.
The hot water poured over me, washing away the smell of mugwort and sweat.
I looked at myself in the mirror—my face was yellow, heavy dark circles under my eyes, and my hair dry as straw.
How can this be a twenty-seven-year-old woman? She looks more like a woman in her forties.
After showering, I went to the mall.
I used to love shopping at this mall; every time I got paid, I would buy a new piece of clothing.
Now, standing in the women's section, I stared blankly at a beige dress hanging on the rack.
I used to love wearing beige, and the last dress I bought before quitting my job was also beige.
"Hello, do you need any help?"The sales assistant came over, smiling at me.
"I'd like to try this on," I said. I pointed to the beige dress.
Wearing the dress and standing in front of the mirror, I barely recognized myself.
The dress fits perfectly, making my face look brighter.
"It's really beautiful," the shopping guide said, "By the way, the system shows today is your birthday. Happy birthday! This is a small gift from us."
She handed me a small box, which contained a hand cream.
As I held the box, tears suddenly fell from my eyes.
A birthday.
I had forgotten my own birthday.
In the past, every year on my birthday, when my mother was still alive, she would cook me longevity noodles.
After my mother passed away, my father, sister, and brothers never mentioned my birthday.
Last year, when I mentioned it, my father said, "Your birthday is the day of my suffering—what is there to celebrate?"
The shopping assistant was startled and quickly handed me a tissue: "Are you all right? Do you feel unwell?"
"I'm fine," I wiped my tears and smiled, "I'm just so happy."
I bought that dress and also picked up a bright red lipstick.
After paying, my phone rang; it was a live stream notification from "a filial family's daily."
I tapped on it, and the screen showed my family's living room.
My father sat in a wheelchair, with Mary, Lily, and Eric standing nearby; their faces looked very troubled.
Download the SnackShort app, Search 【 891329 】reads the whole book.
My Fiction
SnackShort
Booklite« Previous Post
My Wife Killed My Brother
Next Post »
A Commander's Vindication