After my death, the whole family found out that I was actually a fake heiress

Yeah. If I insisted on treatment, my parents would have to borrow from loan sharks. Sell their blood. But a family like mine—even if we sold ourselves down to the bone—couldn't scrape together five hundred thousand dollars. I was only eighteen. I hadn't gone to college yet. Hadn't dated. Hadn't really lived. I didn't want to die. But to keep from crushing my parents, I had to choose death. After making the decision, I actually felt lighter. I forced myself to be cheerful, eating big spoonfuls of the steamed egg custard Dad made, hoping to leave them only good memories. When it was time to go, Dad pulled a crumpled fifteen dollars from inside his shoe. "Anna, this is what your mom had left over from buying medicine. Take it for pocket money." Through blurry tears, I waved him off, turned around, and walked out the door. The instant I stepped outside, it hit me—this was the last time I'd ever see my parents. I broke down. Tears poured out before I could stop them. With my back to them, I choked down a sob. "Dad, Mom… if I weren't here, would your lives hurt less?" Mom's voice was soft, but scolding. "Silly girl. What parent would ever think their child is a burden?" "As long as you make something of yourself—forget suffering—your dad and I would work ourselves to death and still be happy." A mother's love pressed down on my chest like a stone, so heavy I couldn't breathe. Maybe… I should have died a long time ago. Or maybe being born was my original sin. Because she gave birth to me, Mom's back was ruined. When it flared up, the pain made her lose control of her bladder and bowels. She'd be paralyzed in bed for days. Treating her illness drained every penny we had. It still didn't fix the root problem. To take care of her, Dad quit his decent job and started hauling cement at a construction site near the hospital. For as long as I could remember, I'd known the taste of poverty. The food at home was so scarce I was severely malnourished—skinny and stunted, living like a little rat. Everything I wore was hand-me-downs from relatives. Oversized clothes. Shoes that didn't fit. And an inferiority complex branded into my bones. That was my childhood. In middle school, my body started developing. The first time I got my period, I went to Mom, heart pounding, to ask for money for pads. She was groaning in pain in bed, but she still insisted on giving me the money set aside for her medicine. Drenched in sweat, gasping, she said, "Even if it kills me, I won't let my child suffer." I cried from guilt, covered the bloodstain on my pants, and ran back to school. From twelve until now, during my period I used tissues stuffed with scraps of cloth. Every month, for those few days, I endured the sticky wetness of blood soaking through my pants. Endured my deskmate covering their nose and looking at me with disgust. Endured the boys' mocking laughter. In high school, the school stopped providing meals. The food money my family gave me wasn't even enough for bread. But I never asked them for more. Not once. Because I knew every dollar I spent was carried in on Dad's back, hauling cement. Saved by Mom, scraping it from between her teeth. I already owed too much. I wasn't qualified to talk about dignity. I survived by picking up plastic bottles on the sports field. By eating leftovers other students abandoned in the cafeteria. In winter, to save twenty cents on hot water, I drank straight from the tap. Day after day, I pushed through. And finally, I made it to the eve of the college entrance exam. My practice scores—over seven hundred—were enough to get me into a top medical school on a full scholarship. By then, I could finally make Dad straighten the back that steel and concrete had bent. Finally take Mom to a real hospital.

And I could finally repay that debt—the one that had crushed me for eighteen years. But I was about to die. Some debts can never be fully repaid. Having decided to die, I returned to the hospital. The doctor said without surgery, I had one month left. As my condition worsened, my body would swell, my kidneys would fail, until my heart simply gave out. After a brief internal struggle, I decided to donate my organs. Better to help others than rot in a hospital bed with no dignity. And more importantly—I could leave my parents some money for nutrition supplements. The doctor couldn't talk me out of it. Eventually, he agreed. I signed the papers: my corneas, part of my liver. While waiting for blood work and matching results, the doctor handed me a meal voucher. Starving, I traded it for a palm-sized cake. Tomorrow was my eighteenth birthday. The cake bristled with eighteen candles, like little flames ready to consume me whole. I closed my eyes for a long time, but couldn't think of a wish. Maybe the dying shouldn't have hopes at all. I ate the sweet cream in tiny sips, scraped the plate clean, and still wanted more. My first cake ever. It was delicious. When I returned to my room, the doctor said the match was successful. Surgery would begin tonight. I hesitated, embarrassed. "How much... will they pay?" "I told both recipients about your situation," he said. "They're willing to give twenty-four thousand total, including follow-up costs." The number loosened something in my chest. Soon, the recipients' families delivered a heavy bag of cash. There wasn't much time. I tore a page from the visitor log and scrawled my last words in ballpoint, then stuffed it into the bag. As they wheeled me toward the operating room, I pressed the bag into the doctor's hands. I choked back tears. "Please—give this to the Chens." He nodded solemnly. "I'll hold onto it. When your parents visit, I'll hand it to them personally." The anesthesia hit. My thoughts dissolved. When I woke, I was lying in a sterile white room, tubes snaking from every part of my body. Painfully, I lifted my arm, grabbed the breathing mask strapped to my face, and ripped it off. Finally. It's ending. The heart monitor screamed. Medical staff flooded in, hands pressing, machines whirring. Their movements were frantic, but I felt nothing. My body grew impossibly light. I drifted up, away from the hospital room, pulled toward somewhere unfamiliar. Old folks always said the dead return home. But my soul didn't go home. It drifted to a mansion in the city center. A luxury van idled at the entrance. The driver opened the passenger door. A familiar figure stepped out. Dad. Dad—who had always worn threadbare work clothes—was dressed in an expensive suit. The front door swung open. A girl in her twenties emerged, looking eerily like me. She hooked her arm through his, beaming. "Daddy! Everyone's ready, just waiting for you!" Daddy? Did Dad... have another daughter? My soul followed them inside. Pristine white carpet. Blinding luxury. Crystal, gold, silk. And there— Mom.

My mom, who had been "bedridden" year-round, was dressed in pearls and glittering jewelry. She skillfully uncorked a bottle of wine, poured it into an exquisite decanter, and divided it among four stemmed glasses. On the table sat a huge cake. The message read: Happy 18th Birthday to Serena Abbott & Anna Gilbert The woman who looked exactly like me lifted her glass with a smile. "Daddy, Mommy, let's all wish my little sister—whom I've never met—a happy birthday!" The three of them raised their glasses and drank it all in one go. The remaining glass was probably left for me. Anna Gilbert was my name. The ones celebrating my birthday were my parents, and my older sister whom I had never met. But I had never truly known them. All at once, I fell into enormous confusion and panic. Mom sighed. "Ah, if only Anna could come." Dad's face turned stern. "There's still one last month. Once Anna finishes the college entrance exam and completes the task, we absolutely cannot give up halfway!" I was stunned. A task? What task? Mom dabbed at the tear marks at the corner of her eye. "It's all thanks to the 'raise-poor' plan you designed. That's how we trained our Anna to excel in both character and academics—to endure hardship and work hard." "To raise her, I've worried myself sick." "Pretending to be bedridden all day. The figure I worked so hard to maintain with yoga is about to go out of shape." Dad drained his glass in one gulp. "These past years, I haven't suffered any less." "When Anna was home, I didn't even dare smoke cigars. Held it in until my whole body felt miserable." My sister cut cake for them. "Once my little sister gets into college, we can come clean to her." "By then, the mansion, the luxury cars, the family business—it'll be enough to make up for the suffering she's endured these past years." "You two can finally rest, and you won't have to go to that damn rundown house anymore to pretend to be poor." Dad looked smug. "This kid Anna really didn't let down our careful training." "Just in senior year of high school, she already earned twenty-four thousand dollars. She's got my style from back then." Serena lifted her glass with a smile. "I used that money to buy a bottle of 1982 Lafite. Not a cent more, not a cent less—so consider it my little sister showing you two respect ahead of time." "On my little sister's behalf, I thank you both for your hard work and dedication." Mom's expression turned doting, with a hint of reproach. "Serena, you've got nerve." "If it weren't for you only caring about having fun all day, would your dad and I have had to go to such lengths to raise Anna?" Serena stuck out her tongue playfully, stood up, and clinked glasses with our parents. "Here's to the 'raise-poor plan' for Anna—a complete success!" The three of them lifted the crimson wine and, in a cheerful atmosphere, drank it all in one go. And I finally understood the whole truth. The illness was fake. The poverty was fake too. But in these eighteen years, my fear, unease, inferiority, cowardice, and the suffocating guilt more stifling than death itself—those were real. They had conspired in a vile game, and the price was my life. The last bit of money I had traded my half-dead body for was being swallowed down by them, mouthful by mouthful. The intense pain almost devoured my soul. I wanted to scream at them—why did they treat me like this! But no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't make even the slightest sound. At that moment, a servant rushed over clutching a paper bag. His face was deathly pale. "Sir, I just found a strange letter in the money pouch sent by the second young lady." Dad took the letter casually. When he saw what was inside, his face went white with fright…