The moment I saw my results, my world collapsed.
Both kidneys failed. Late-stage uremia.
With trembling hands, I searched treatment costs online.
Hospitalization. Surgery. Follow-up care. Everything combined—at least five hundred thousand dollars.
Panicked and lost, I took leave and went home.
In our shabby one-room house, Dad was clumsily lighting the stove. In the pot, he reheated leftovers he'd brought back from the construction site.
Mom sat in her wheelchair, laboriously breaking a painkiller in half before tilting her head back to swallow it.
Dad scolded her. "Last time, you nearly passed out because you didn't take enough! Why only half again?"
Mom sighed and pulled a wrinkled little notebook from her pocket.
"A bottle of painkillers costs dozens of dollars. Every bit saved counts."
"Lily's about to take her exams. Even if I have to squeeze it from between my teeth, I'll squeeze out her tuition."
The scene before me was like molten iron poured down my throat.
I'd come home to confess my illness. Now I couldn't open my mouth.
I stood in the doorway for a long time. Only after I'd stopped my tears did I dare step inside.
"Dad, Mom. I'm back."