To Bring Home My Faked-Death Sister, I Died for Real Chapter 2

Just like always, she called out towards the room Chloe and I shared before heading straight for the kitchen.

Dad was curled up on the sofa, shivering, a nasty flu rattling his chest with every cough. My heart ached looking at him—his hair now more white than black, his face a roadmap of worry, his body thin and frail beneath his tattered clothes. I could still remember when he was the most handsome man in the neighborhood.

Mom poked her head out of the kitchen, her expression softening with concern. “You need to get some medicine. This family depends on you. You can’t afford to fall apart.”

Dad didn’t open his eyes, just hugged himself tighter. “I’m fine.”

He tried to stand, but his legs were weak. He shuffled towards their bedroom. “I’ll just bury myself in blankets. Sweat it out.”

He lay down on their lumpy, worn-out mattress and pulled every heavy piece of clothing in the house on top of himself, a makeshift mountain of fabric.

He mumbled something so quietly I almost missed it. “That money… is better spent on Lily’s medicine.” He let out a long, shuddering sigh.

I floated beside his bed, tears I could no longer physically shed streaming down my face. As he drifted off to sleep, a muffled sob escaped his lips, a sound he tried to bury in his pillow so Mom and I wouldn’t hear.

“Chloe… my brilliant, beautiful girl… how could this happen?” His voice was a broken whisper. “God, if you had to take one of my daughters… why did it have to be her?”

I reached out to pat his back, but my hand passed right through him.

“Dad, it’s okay,” I whispered, my voice lost to the air. “I’m gone now. You and Mom don’t have to suffer anymore. Maybe… maybe Chloe will come home.”

He couldn’t hear me. He just lay there, his shoulders shaking with silent, repressed grief.

He didn’t stop until Mom came in to tell him dinner was ready. He was a master at hiding his pain; she never suspected he’d been crying.

“Not hungry. Just call Lily.”

Mom sighed and walked toward my room. Pushing the door open, she saw me tucked under the covers.

“Lily, time to eat. I made your favorite chicken wings.”

Silence. I didn’t move.

She tried again, her patience wearing thin. “Lily?”

Still nothing.

Suddenly, her frustration boiled over. “Are you listening to me? Or are you dead in there? I slave away for you day in and day out, and this is the thanks I get? Can’t you give me one moment of peace? Must you always be lying in bed like a useless lump?”

Her voice rose with every word. “I’m talking to you! Do you hear me? The whole family is falling apart, and all you can do is sleep? It should have been you! Then I could die too, and we’d all finally be free!”

The more she yelled, the more she broke. Tears streamed down her face, and she swiped at them angrily with the back of her hand.

I rushed forward instinctively to hug her, but my arms closed on empty air. I could only watch, helpless, repeating the words she couldn’t hear. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.”

I knew she didn’t hate me. Not really. It was my illness they hated, the relentless burden that had tormented them for twenty-six years.

She turned and stalked out of the room, slumping into a chair at our rickety, three-legged dining table to weep. On the table sat three bowls of rice, a small plate with two glistening chicken wings, and a side of homemade pickles.

The wings were for me. Mom only ever bought two.

At first, the butcher would sneer at her. “Who buys just two chicken wings?” Mom would just offer a tight, embarrassed smile. After a while, he learned about our family’s situation. He never made a comment again. Sometimes, he’d even throw in some scallions and ginger for free.