The day I died, the only sound in the hospital room was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. Stage four stomach cancer. I was down to 74 pounds. The nurse checked my emergency contacts three times. One number. Ethan. Relationship: Brother. The call went through. It rang eight times. "Sis, I'm in a meeting. Make it quick." I opened my mouth, but my throat felt like it was clogged with rust. "Ethan, sis... I don't think I'm going to make it." There was a two-second silence on the other end. "Which hospital? I'll have my assistant check on it." I'll have my assistant check on it. I raised him for 18 years. From the time I was 16 until I was 34. Paid for his college, paid for his grad school, paid for his tailored suits, his nice car, his wedding to his boss's daughter. He'll have his assistant check on it. The sound of the monitor grew fainter. The last thought in my head before I closed my eyes was— If I could do it all over again, I wouldn't give him a single cent. 01 The beeping of the heart monitor turned into the chirping of cicadas. Piercing, dense chirping. My eyes snapped open. The ceiling was pasted with yellowing newspaper. There was a long crack in the corner of the wall. Outside the window, the July sun was so bright it hurt my eyes. I recognized this ceiling. This was the Hayes family's old house. Southcreek County, Riverside Town. The dirt-brick house I lived in for 16 years. I looked down at my hands. Slender, pale, knuckles distinct. Not the rough, cracked, deformed hands of a 34-year-old. On the nightstand sat a flip phone with a pink case, rhinestones glued around the edge, several of them already missing. I bought this when I was 16 with two months' worth of saved allowance. The screen lit up with a text message: [Chloe, your dad had an accident at the construction site. Get to the county hospital right now.] Sent: July 14, 2006, 10:07 AM. I stared at the date for a solid three minutes. 2006. I was back. In my past life, after receiving this text, I jumped out of bed, ran two miles to the main road in my flip-flops, and hitched a ride on a tractor to the county town. By the time I got to the hospital, my dad was already gone. A crane cable snapped at the site, and a steel pipe fell. He died instantly. I remember clearly what happened next. On the third day after the funeral, my mom called me into the living room. She said, "Chloe, Ethan is only 8. With your dad gone, we have to rely on you." She said, "You're the older sister." She said, "It's useless for a girl to get so much education. It's better to start making money early." That year, I ranked 11th in the whole county for the high school entrance exams. County High had sent me an acceptance letter. I folded the letter into quarters and shoved it under my pillow. I never took it out again. This life. I looked at the text message and took a deep breath. I stood up, changed my clothes, and headed out. I still had to go to the hospital. Some things couldn't be changed. But some things could. When I arrived at the hospital, there was a crowd of people kneeling in the hallway. My mom, Mary Hayes, was leaning against the wall. Her eyes were swollen red, her lips pale. Next to her stood my Aunt Brenda and my Uncle Frank. As soon as Aunt Brenda saw me, she grabbed my arm. "Chloe, your dad is gone. You have to be strong." I didn't cry. It wasn't that I wasn't sad. It's just that I had already lived through this funeral once. The tears I was meant to cry had all dried up in my past life. The funeral took three days. On the morning of the fourth day, my mom told me to sit on the long bench in the living room. Aunt Brenda was there, Uncle Frank was there, and Aunt Susan from next door was there too. My brother, Ethan, was sitting on the doorstep eating a popsicle. Eight years old, a chubby little guy, not really understanding what had happened. My mom started to speak. The exact same script as my past life. "Chloe, your dad is gone. It's just the three of us now." "You know my health. My back is bad; I can't do heavy labor." "Ethan is only in second grade. He still has middle school, high school, and college ahead of him." "You're the older sister." She looked at me, waiting for my response. In my past life, I said, "Mom, I understand." In this life, I said, "And then what?" My mom was stunned for a moment. Aunt Brenda took over. "What your mom means is, you should forget about that County High. Go work at your cousin's factory first. You'll make over a thousand a month." "Ethan's tuition, the household expenses, we're all counting on you." Aunt Susan chimed in from the side. "That's right. A girl gets all that education, but she's just going to marry someone else anyway." I looked at them one by one. "I'm not dropping out." Four words. The living room went quiet. My mom's face slowly darkened. Aunt Brenda frowned. "Chloe, what kind of attitude is that? Your mom just lost her husband—" "Aunt Brenda," I cut her off. "Who paid for my dad's funeral?" Aunt Brenda opened her mouth. "The construction site paid compensation, right?" I looked at my mom. "How much did they pay?" In my past life, I never asked this question. My mom kept the compensation money a tight secret. I thought the family truly didn't have a single penny, so I willingly dropped out of school. It wasn't until I was 32 and got stomach problems and checked the bank statements that I discovered the truth. This life, I wasn't going to wait 16 years. My mom's eyes shifted for a second. Very fast, just a fleeting moment. But I saw it. "They paid a little," she said. "Not even enough to cover the funeral." I didn't say anything, just stood up and went back to my room. The moment the door closed, I heard Aunt Brenda outside saying: "This girl is getting too big for her britches." 02 I didn't press her about the compensation money right away. Living 34 years in my past life taught me one crucial lesson— Don't rush; let the bullets fly for a bit. Early the next morning, while my mom was out in the vegetable garden, I went through her room. The metal lockbox under the bed. The combination was still Ethan's birthday: 0215. Inside were the family registry, her marriage certificate, the land deed, and a bank book. From the rural credit union. Balance: 0. But the last transaction in the withdrawal history— July 16, 2006. Withdrawal: $60,000. My dad passed away on July 14th. Two days later, someone withdrew sixty thousand. Where did that money go? I put the bank book back and locked the box. Three days later, my mom talked to me for the second time. This time, she didn't call Aunt Brenda and Uncle Frank. It was just the two of us, and Ethan. She had Ethan sit across from me. "Ethan, tell your sister, do you want to go to school?" Ethan had a piece of candy in his mouth. He mumbled, "Yes." My mom looked at me. "You heard him." "Mom," I said, "I want to go to school too." "If you go to school, what about Ethan?" "Ethan is eight. He goes to the village elementary school. Tuition is 120 bucks a semester. Why wouldn't he be able to go?" "What about later? Middle school? High school? College? Your dad's not here. Who's going to pay?" "We'll worry about later when later comes. I'm 16 right now. The acceptance letter from County High is already here. School starts September 1st. I'm going." The corners of my mom's mouth turned down. I knew that expression. It was the expression she made right before she was about to cry. "Your dad has only been gone seven days, and you're already disobeying me." The tears started falling. Ethan was startled and burst into tears. "Sister is mean! Sister made Mommy cry!" In my past life, this trick worked every time. My mom cried, Ethan threw a tantrum, and my heart softened. This life, I sat on the stool and didn't move an inch. I waited for them to finish crying. Five minutes. When Ethan's wailing turned into sniffles, and my mom's tears slowed down, I finally spoke. "Mom, crying doesn't solve problems." "I'm going to County High. Tuition is 950 a semester. I'll work in town during the summer to earn some of it, and I'll apply for financial aid for the rest." "For you and Ethan's living expenses, Dad's compensation money is enough." I said the last sentence very softly. But it hit like a bomb. My mom's tears stopped instantly. "What compensation money?" "From the construction site." "The site didn't pay a damn thing!" She suddenly raised her voice. "Your dad was a temp. He didn't sign a contract. The boss ran away. We didn't get a single cent!" She said it with absolute certainty. I looked into her eyes. In my past life, I believed her. In this life, I knew there was a $60,000 withdrawal record in that bank book. I didn't expose her on the spot. It wasn't enough. Sixty thousand was just the tip of the iceberg. The number I found out when I was 32 in my past life was 480,000. "Okay," I said. "Then I'll figure it out myself." I stood up. As I walked to the door, I looked back at Ethan. He was shrinking into my mom's arms, tears still hanging on his cheeks. Eight years old. In my past life, I gave up everything for that face. In this life, I will treat him well. But I won't trade my life for his future. 03 There were forty days left of summer vacation. I went to the only small diner in town and told the owner I could wait tables, wash dishes, chop vegetables—do anything. The owner looked me up and down. "How old are you?" "Sixteen." "Twenty bucks a day, lunch included. You in?" "I'm in." Up at 5:30 AM, bike 40 minutes to town, work until 3:00 PM, head home. When I got home, I still had to cook, do laundry, and feed the chickens. My mom's "bad back" deteriorated rapidly after I started working. It turned into her lying in bed all day, not even cooking. Ethan's three meals a day also fell on my shoulders. I didn't complain. I did these chores for 18 years in my past life. I knew them like the back of my hand. But one thing was different. In my past life, I gave every cent I earned to my mom, keeping nothing for myself. In this life, I opened an account at the town credit union. Out of the 20 bucks a day, I deposited 15 and kept 5 for bus fare and groceries. In twenty-eight days, I saved 420 dollars. One night in mid-August, my mom suddenly appeared at my bedroom door. "Chloe, how much money did you make working?" "Not much." "How much?" "About four hundred." "Give it here. Ethan's backpack is broken; he needs a new one. Plus, there are school fees, notebooks, and pens for the new semester." "Aren't Ethan's school fees only 120?" "With the backpack, school supplies, and uniform, it's close to five hundred." I checked my ledger. "Ethan's uniform was bought last year. He hasn't even worn it a full year; it still fits. He has a ton of school supplies left over from last semester; I checked. The backpack can be stitched up and reused. All in all, 130 is enough." My mom was stunned. She probably didn't expect me to actually do the math. The me from my past life wouldn't have. The me from my past life would just say, "Okay, Mom. Here." "130." I counted it out from my tin box and placed it on the desk. "I'm keeping the rest for my tuition." My mom stared at the 130 bucks. Her expression was complicated. She didn't take it. She just turned and left. The next day, Ethan came home with a new backpack. Blue, with Spider-Man on it. It didn't look cheap. "Who bought it?" I asked. "Aunt Brenda!" Ethan held it up to show me. "Aunt Brenda said I was a good boy, so she rewarded me." Aunt Brenda. My dad's older sister. She married a guy in the county town who worked at the tobacco company. They had a pretty good life. In my past life, Aunt Brenda was always incredibly good to Ethan. Red envelopes for every holiday and festival. For me, not a single cent, ever. I thought it was because Ethan was cute and lovable. Later, I realized Aunt Brenda had her own calculations— Ethan was the only male heir of the Hayes family. If she raised him right, he would be the one to take care of her in her old age. As a daughter who would eventually marry out, I was a losing investment in her eyes. "It looks nice." I patted Ethan's backpack. "Study hard." Ethan nodded and ran out to play. That night, I went through my mom's metal lockbox again. The bank book was still there. The balance was still 0. But I noticed a detail I hadn't paid attention to before. The account holder's name— It wasn't my dad, Richard Hayes. It was my mom, Mary Hayes. That sixty thousand wasn't withdrawn from my dad's account. It was my mom's own account. When did my mom, a rural stay-at-home housewife, ever have sixty thousand dollars in savings? Unless that money was transferred from somewhere else to begin with. I put the bank book back. The puzzle was still missing a few pieces. No rush. 04 On September 1st, I stepped through the gates of County High. In my past life, I had only walked through these gates in my dreams. County High was on the east side of the county town, over 20 miles from home. I had to board. Boarding was 200 a semester. Tuition was 950. Estimating food at the bare minimum of 150 a month, half a year was 900. Total: 2050. I saved 420 from working, and I worked a few extra days at the diner at the end of summer, bringing it to 500. I was still short 1550. I found Director Vance at the administration office. "Financial hardship?" Director Vance flipped through my file. "Father passed away from a work accident, mother is a farmer, and you have an eight-year-old brother?" "Yes." "Ranked 11th in the county for the entrance exams?" "Yes." He looked up at me. "Do you have a proof of poverty certificate?" "Yes." I handed over the certificate stamped by the village committee. Director Vance signed it. "Tuition fully waived. Boarding fee halved. Talk to your homeroom teacher about a stipend; you can get 750 a semester." 750. Plus the 500 I had. 1250. It was enough. I stood outside the administration office and took a deep breath. The sunlight was bright, reflecting off the brand-new school building. In my past life, I stood on a factory assembly line for 18 years. I never saw sunlight like this for a single day. During the first week of school, my mom called three times. The first: "Ethan says he misses you. When are you coming back?" The second: "We're almost out of rice. Send some money back." The third: "Your Aunt Brenda says it costs too much for you to board in town. It's better if you come back and find a job in the village." Three calls, three different tactics. The family card, the financial card, the authority card. In my past life, any one of them would have been enough to make me give up. In this life, I replied with five words. "I am in class." And hung up. My homeroom teacher, Ms. Miller, was a woman in her early thirties, very efficient. During the second week, she called me in for a chat. "Chloe, I understand your situation. The school offers work-study positions. Organizing books in the library, 80 bucks a month, two hours each on Saturday and Sunday. Would you like to do it?" "Yes, please." "Also, helping out in the cafeteria. 5:30 AM to 6:30 AM. They provide breakfast and an extra 30 bucks." "I'd like to do that too." Ms. Miller looked at me. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but she ended up just saying one sentence: "Study hard." I nodded. My days started running like clockwork. 5:30 AM: Cafeteria helper. 6:30 AM: Eat breakfast, go to class. Classes during the day, study hall until 10 PM. Weekends: Organizing shelves in the library. When I was done, I'd sit down and read. In my past life, my education stopped at middle school. But 18 years of real-world experience gave me one thing— I knew what was truly important. It wasn't what Aunt Brenda called "a girl's duty." It wasn't what my mom called "you're the older sister." It was myself. Mid-October. The first midterms. Out of 48 students in the class, I ranked 3rd. Out of 820 students in the grade, I ranked 17th. Ms. Miller circled my rank in red on the report card. I looked at that ranking, not feeling anything special. The Chloe Hayes of my past life ranked 11th in the county. She was never lacking in brains. What she lacked was opportunity. The weekend the midterm results came out, my mom came to the school. She stood at the school gate, wearing a faded floral shirt, holding a plastic bag containing a few boiled eggs and a bag of peanuts. "Chloe, Mom brought you some food." I took the bag. She sat next to me on the steps by the school gate, silent for a while. "Fixing the roof at home is going to cost two thousand." Here it comes. "It leaks when it rains. Ethan's room got all wet. The whole wall is covered in mold." She didn't ask for money directly; she brought up Ethan. It was always Ethan. "Mom, I make 110 bucks a month working. I barely have enough for food. I don't have two thousand." "Can you borrow some from your classmates?" "No." My mom's expression changed. "You're out here getting too big for your britches, you don't even care about the family anymore, do you?" "I care. But I can't give you money I don't have. If the roof leaks, apply for a dilapidated housing subsidy from the village committee. I'll help you fill out the form." She opened her mouth but didn't say anything. Finally, she left carrying that empty plastic bag. After she left, I sat on the steps for a long time. The October wind blew past. It was a little chilly. I didn't feel sorry for her. I felt sorry for 18 years in my past life, until I felt so sorry for myself that I died from it. That was enough.
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