For two decades, I had lived a life of sacrifice, believing I was saving my sister from a debilitating illness. My days were spent in thrifty hardship, substituting meals with instant noodles and foregoing the comforts of life. The thought of her suffering kept me going; my love for her was the driving force behind every decision. Yet, the moment I stepped into my family’s opulent world, the truth shattered my naive devotion.
As I walked up the driveway, my heart sank at the sight of the sprawling mansion that loomed before me. The luxury cars parked proudly out front glistened under the sun, a stark contrast to the modest vehicle I had carefully maintained for years. My sister, whom I imagined frail and bedridden, was instead reclining comfortably, her laughter ringing out as she chatted on her phone.
“Mom, Dad—the loser is here.” Her words cut through the air, every syllable dripping with disdain. My father, clad in expensive attire that spoke of affluence, emerged with a smirk. My mother, too, appeared, her expression one of superficial warmth. They had spun a web of lies so intricate that I had unwittingly financed their lavish lifestyle. My contributions, intended for her treatment, had funded their earthly pleasures instead.
