The day I was born, my family did something.
From then on, I survived, but at a price: I was cursed with terrible luck.
Cars overturned, money went missing, and one person after another around me met with trouble.
My mother wouldn’t let me tell fortunes, touch anything occult, or travel far from home.
I always thought she was superstitious.
The night she was critically ill, she clutched my hand. What she said wasn’t a last will and testament,
but a name I’d never heard before.
I took that name and started investigating.
The day that person won the lottery was the same day my father had his accident.
Over the years, he got promoted, bought a house, and his life kept getting better,
as if someone else had already gone through all the hardships of his life for him.
I went back and asked my mother.
She closed her eyes and said nothing.
All those years of forbidding me to do things weren’t superstition.
She had been shielding me.
But I can’t keep shielding him anymore.
The longer I live, the shorter his life becomes.
Every extra day I live is one day less for him.
