Even Dad's tone had softened into something pleading. "We failed you before. We know that now. We'll find a way to get the surgery done sooner. Please, don't be stubborn."
I let out a harsh, dry laugh.
"Was I living well at home before? You were always 'busy with work.' I grew up on frozen dinners and instant noodles. I haven't had a decent meal from you in years. Why do you suddenly care now?"
Their faces flushed crimson. Not anger this time—shame. The memories of their neglect seemed to hit them all at once.
Mom opened her mouth, but no words came.
"If you really want to do something for me," I said, voice cold as ice, "then leave. Don't show your faces here again."
I gripped the door handle, knuckles white. "Because right now, looking at you makes me physically ill."
I slammed the door.
Under the dim streetlights, their shadows stretched long and thin, looking small and pathetic. But I refused to look back.
Not long after, I saw Mom on the local news.
Max, the poor student who received the heart meant for me, was on screen. He choked up, thanking Mom and calling her his "second mother."
On screen, Mom wiped a tear from her eye. "It is simply a doctor's duty," she said humbly.