Chapter 1

My mother loved both my sister and me.

So when Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, I quit my promising corporate job and took freelance gigs from home just to take care of her around the clock.

In her final two years, she couldn't even remember my name, but she constantly muttered about how my sister loved fruit candy when she was little.

My sister settled down out of state. In six whole years, she visited only three times, never staying longer than forty-eight hours, always claiming her kid couldn't live without her.

Mom passed away peacefully, clutching a faded, yellowed bankbook in her hand.

It was the dowry savings Mom put away for my sister twenty years ago. Vanessa hadn't taken it back then, so Mom had kept it all those years.

It wasn't until the lawyer read the will that I found out: Mom left our only family house to Vanessa.

On the phone, my sister sobbed hysterically: "Mom was thinking about me until the very end..."

Gripping the receiver, I stared at the dents hammered into the drywall, suddenly remembering every single medical bill, caregiver fee, diaper pack, and feeding tube I had paid for out of my own pocket over those six years.

I didn't cry. Instead, I let out a calm, quiet chuckle.

Taking a deep breath, I kept my voice low, articulating every single syllable:

"Vanessa, when you fly back to transfer the deed, make sure to settle what you owe me."

"I've kept every single receipt. Exactly fifty-six thousand, eight hundred dollars."

When the lawyer read the will, my sister, Vanessa, wasn't there.

She was just weeping breathlessly over the phone, claiming her son had a high fever and she couldn't get away.

I sat quietly across from the attorney, still wearing the black shirt from Mom's memorial service, the collar faded and frayed.

"Ms. Miller, according to your mother's notarized will, the family home on the south side will be inherited solely by her eldest daughter, Vanessa Miller."

The lawyer's tone was flat.

My fingers curled against my knees, nails digging into the denim.

Nothing for me.

I had cared for Mom for six years—the entire duration of her Alzheimer's.

In the last two years, she couldn't even call me by my name. She would just grab my wrist and mumble incoherently:

"Fruit candy... Your sister loves fruit candy."

I had thrown away a brilliant career at a multinational firm just to do sporadic freelance translation jobs while looking after her.

Six years. Two thousand one hundred and ninety days. I hadn't bought a single new coat or set foot inside a movie theater.

The only road trip I took was driving her to the specialized medical center in the capital.

The ugly dents on the hallway wall were from when she had an episode and smashed it with a wooden stool.

I patched it with spackle over and over, but the scar remained embedded in the plaster, impossible to smooth away.

Vanessa lived two states away. In six years, she visited exactly three times.

The first time was right after Mom's diagnosis. With teary eyes, she told me her job was hectic and her baby was tiny, so she'd have to trouble me to shoulder it all.

The second time was when Mom's mind deteriorated completely. Vanessa stayed less than two days before rushing back, saying her kid was being bullied at preschool.

The third time was last week, while Mom was on her deathbed.

She stayed for just twenty-four hours. Before leaving, she gripped my hand with wet eyes:

"Maya, I'm counting on you. Leo has his violin evaluation next week. If I'm not in the audience, he'll be terrified."

I thought I was used to it.

Used to her dumping every burden onto me while effortlessly playing the doting daughter and model mother.

Yet, when the attorney slid that thin sheet of paper across the desk, my heart still felt pierced by a dull needle.

The attorney seemed to sense my deflation. With professional sympathy, he added:

"Ms. Miller, your mother also left you something else."

He slid over a battered, vintage bankbook. The cover was curled and yellowed from decades of handling, the corners reinforced with yellowed tape—clear evidence of how many times Mom had stroked it.

I recognized it instantly.

Twenty years ago, Mom saved this money as a dowry for Vanessa.

Later, Vanessa married into a wealthy family and told Mom she didn't need it: "Mom, just hold onto it for me."

So it sat at the bottom of Mom's cedar chest for twenty straight years.

Mom kept it hidden away, taking it out once in a while just to look at it.

I cracked it open. The balance read five thousand dollars.

Over two decades, without earning a dime of interest, it had rested there silently—a monument to Mom's unconditional favoritism toward Vanessa.

His job done, the attorney politely walked me out.

Holding that feather-light bankbook, I walked down the street under the scorching June sun, the asphalt soft under my sneakers.

Yet I couldn't feel the heat. A deep chill seeped out from my bones.

Returning to the apartment that still smelled of antiseptic and aging, the first thing I saw was that dented wall.

It stared back at me, mocking me.

I put down the bankbook and began packing Mom's belongings.

She didn't have many clothes. Mostly outdated sweaters, washed clean by my hands.

I folded them one by one into cardboard boxes.

At the very bottom of her wardrobe, I found a small tin box.

Inside, there were no gold chains or family heirlooms—just a thick, heavy stack of receipts.

From Mom's first hospital admission six years ago, to the last feeding tube I purchased for her last week.

Every single invoice bore my signature.

Like a fool, I had neatly logged every unpaid sacrifice, sheet by sheet, for six whole years.

My phone buzzed. It was Vanessa.

The second the call connected, her theatrical wailing filled my ear, making it ring.

"Maya! The lawyer called me! How could Mom do this?!"

"She was thinking of me until the very end, leaving the house only to me!"

"I've been such a terrible daughter! I wasn't even there when she needed me most! Oh God..."

Underneath the sobs, I caught a sliver of poorly disguised, bubbling ecstasy.

I stayed silent, listening.

My gaze drifted from the thick pile of invoices to the dented wall, and finally to the $5,000 bankbook that represented Mom's love.

Over the past six years, during countless midnight breakdowns, this was how I survived—swallowing all my grief and exhaustion in silence.

On the other end, Vanessa's crying tapered off. With a cautious sniffle, she tested the waters.

"Maya? Are you listening?"

"Look, Mom left the house to me. You cared for her for so long and got nothing. It's not fair."

"How about... I wire you five thousand dollars? Just as a token of my appreciation from an older sister. What do you think?"

Five thousand dollars.

To buy out six years of my youth, to wipe away every medical bill, caregiver fee, adult diaper, and feeding tube.

In Vanessa's eyes, my six years of life were worth five grand.

I stared at the call screen, my eyes stinging.

Suddenly, a wave of pure absurdity washed over me—not rage, not grief, just profound, dark comedy.

I gave Mom six years—two thousand one hundred and ninety days. On her other daughter's ledger, each day was worth barely two dollars and twenty cents.

A laugh escaped my throat.

It was dry and scratchy, like a rusted iron gate forced open.

As I laughed, my eyes burned.

Turns out, when people hit absolute disappointment, they really do laugh before they cry.