I came to the hospital to collect the paperwork for donating my father's corneas, but ran into my mother and sister, whom I hadn't seen in ten years.
They were running around taking care of their “little brother,” who wasn't related to them by blood at all. In their hands was the imported medicine my father had begged for back then, but never managed to get.
Seeing me alone, my mother sneered:
“Here to get your grandfather treated for cataracts? Where's your father? After ten years, is he still pretending to be blind?”
Before I could say anything, my sister was already getting impatient:
“Chen Yu can't wait! Your dad's already blind anyway. What's wrong with donating a cornea?”
I slowly turned around and looked at their anxious faces.
Ten years ago, they took all the life-saving money my father had struggled to raise for me, all for that same “little brother.”
“His corneas,” I heard my own voice, cold as ice, “aren't yours to take.”
