The Unloved

At my funeral, my mother clawed at my portrait, finally seeing the stomach cancer diagnosis datethe same day I sold my kidney to buy my sister a diamond necklace.
My father sat frozen in his Rolls-Royce, gripping the report for my cryopreserved kidney. Outside, bodyguards forced Jane into a psychiatric van.
Their philosophy? Harden the son, spoil the daughter.
We were "struggling"so they claimed. To give Jane a princess life, we all worked endlessly. When she demanded a diamond necklace, my father nearly died hauling bricks, while my malnutrition led to terminal cancer.
To spare them, I sold my kidney for her gift. But returning home, I overheard the truth:
"Are we too harsh?" Mom wavered.
"Its training," Dad growled. "Ill return his kidney when he proves himself."
Jane added sweetly, "Being soft would ruin him."
Their poverty was a lie. Janes fragility, a ruse. They were leeches.
But they didnt know one thingI was already dying.

1
My father's words were like thunderclaps, exploding in my head. I doubled over, pressing my hand against the searing pain in my stomach.
He signed a check and handed it to my mother. "Get this to the owner of that back-alley clinic. Tell him to fill in any number he wants. He needs to leave the country and never come back. No loose ends."
My mother hesitated. "Don't be so sentimental," my father snapped. "It's that weakness that will be our son's downfall."
It was the end of the month, my payday.
My father glanced at the calendar and made a call. "You can come over now. And remember, make it look convincing. Don't hold back."
"He just lost a kidney," my mother ventured. "Shouldn't we let him rest for a few days?"
"What do you know?" he retorted, his voice thick with annoyance. "It's in moments of greatest hardship that a man's will is forged. If I don't shape him properly, how can I entrust him with my legacy?"
"Mom, Dad's right," Jane added. "You can't coddle him. You'll only make him weak."
I saw the designer dress she was wearing, the same one Id seen in a high-end boutique window just last week.
"Enough," my father said. He picked up the heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and, with a sickening crack, smashed it against his own forehead.
My mother and Jane gasped, rushing to his side. "What are you doing? That's insane!"
Blood trickled down his temple, but his eyes gleamed with a feverish intensity. "I want to see what's more important to him," he panted. "His old man, or his money." He waved them away. "He'll be home any minute. Get ready."
I heard a car pull up outside. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Ethan, you're back?" my mother asked, her face a mask of concern.
I managed a choked "Yeah." This place, once my sanctuary, now felt alien and hostile. I placed the necklace box in front of Jane.
Her eyes widened, and she let out an exaggerated shriek of delight. "The necklace! Oh, Ethan, you're the best brother in the world! I love you so much!"
I clutched my aching side, forcing a pained smile onto my face.
My father watched me, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth to say something, but just then, the front door was kicked open with a violent crash.
"Well, well, look who's here."
A group of menacing figures filled the doorway, led by a brute holding a thick metal pipe.
My father instantly transformed into a picture of terror, scurrying forward with a servile bow. "Spike, please, just give us a little more time. I swear, I'll have the money next month."
Spike grabbed my father by the collar and hauled him into the air. My mother dropped to her knees with a thud, tears streaming down her face. "Please, Spike, I'm begging you! We have nothing left. We've sold everything. My husband just had brain surgery; we haven't even paid the hospital bills yet!" She began to bow her head, knocking it against the hardwood floor again and again.
Spike's eyes landed on Jane, a greasy smile spreading across his face. "No money? A daughter will do just fine." He lunged, grabbing Jane from behind me.
"Ah! Let go of me, you bastard!" she shrieked, her face turning crimson as she struggled.
My father tried to intervene but was thrown to the ground and mercilessly kicked.
The pain in my stomach flared again.
My knuckles were white as I watched this elaborate, two-decade-long play unfold, a production staged entirely for my benefit. A spectacle for which I had paid with my own flesh and blood.
My mother's desperate sobs echoed in my ears. "Please, Spike, just a few more days! We'll do anything!"
"That's enough! Stop it!" I yelled, my eyes burning. Even knowing it was all a lie, a sick, twisted performance, I couldn't bear to watch it. "There's fifty thousand dollars on this card. It's my last two months' salary. Just take it and go."
Spike snatched the card from my hand. "So you did have money," he sneered. "Playing poor with me." He gave me a hard shove. The fresh incision on my side slammed into the corner of a cabinet, and the world went white with pain. I nearly passed out.
My father scrambled to his feet, placing himself in front of me. "Don't you touch my son!"
Spike slapped him hard across the face, leaving a bright red handprint.
Tears streamed down my face. "Enough!" I screamed, my voice raw. "You have the money! Get out of my house! If you touch my family again, I'm calling the police!"
For a moment, everyone froze.
My mother looked at me, a flicker of what looked like genuine pain in her eyes. My father fell silent.
Spike shot my father a final glare before turning and leaving with his crew.
My mother ran to her room, sobbing. Jane followed to "comfort" her.
My father sighed, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Son, I'm sorry you have to go through this. But times are tough, and Jane... she's a girl. She can't handle this kind of hardship. A man has to bear more responsibility." He squeezed my shoulder. "Don't work yourself to death. I'll find a way to pay back the rest of the debt."
But Dad, I thought, the words a silent scream in my head, I'm your child, too.
I turned away, swallowing the lump in my throat, and gave a small nod.
Back in my room, I lifted my shirt. The bandage was soaked through with fresh blood. I fumbled for the painkillers and swallowed two, waiting for the agony to recede.
The moon was full and bright. The doctor said my cancer was aggressive. In two months, I wouldn't be able to see this beautiful night sky anymore.
I took a deep breath, about to close the window, when I saw them. My father and Spike, standing under the old oak tree at the end of the street.
Their voices were low, but in the stillness of the night, I could hear every word.
"Mr. Stone," Spike said, respectfully handing my father the debit card. "Here is the young master's card."
"Good work," my father replied with a hearty laugh. "Keep the money. A bonus for a job well done."
Then, my father climbed into the backseat of a car I had seen countless times, the one that belonged to his "creditor." A gleaming Rolls-Royce. It sped off into the night.
It was only later that I learned the truth. Spike wasn't a loan shark.
He was our family's head of security.
The next morning, my mother handed me a thermos. "Ethan, I made you some thin vegetable soup. You can have it for lunch. I'm so sorry, your father and I are so useless... we can't even afford to buy meat." Her eyes welled up with tears.
I thought of the Rolls-Royce from last night. I glanced at the fried egg in Jane's breakfast bowl. After a long silence, I mumbled, "It's okay. I'm a man."

2
I spent the morning working my part-time job at the mall. When my lunch break came, I was about to find a quiet corner to eat my vegetable soup when I saw them through the plate-glass window of a high-end steakhouse.
My mother and Jane.
Gone was my mother's plain, worn-out attire. She was draped in expensive furs, a dazzling diamond ring flashing on her finger. There were only two of them, but their table was laden with more than a dozen dishes. The menu posted by the door was discreetly elegant; a single meal there would cost me several months' salary.
I stood frozen in front of the window.
Jane turned her head and our eyes met. She gasped, frantically tapping our mother's arm.
My mother saw me, but her expression didn't change. There was no embarrassment, no shame at being caught in her lie. She calmly put down her silverware and gestured for me to come inside.
"Ethan," she began, her voice cool and measured, "since you've seen this, there's no point in hiding it from you anymore."
"Our family is much wealthier than you were led to believe. But you must understand, everything your father and I have done, we've done it for you. You're the man of the family. You will inherit this business one day. Jane is a girl; she can't endure the kind of hardship that builds character."
I let out a broken, humorless laugh. "For me? So 'good' you orchestrated a play to take one of my kidneys? What else do you need from me to complete your twisted 'plan'? Tell me now. It's not like I have much time left anyway."
SLAP.
The force of her hand sent my head ringing. Her perfectly made-up face couldn't hide the fury raging in her eyes. "How dare you! Threatening your own mother! I thought all these years of hardship would have taught you some humility, but you're just as defiant as you were as a child."
"Security!"
The bodyguards at the door strode in immediately.
"Beat him," she commanded, her voice like ice. "Beat him until he learns to submit."
The bodyguards were professionals. Each kick felt like it was rupturing my organs. The blood from my wound mixed with the spilled vegetable soup, creating a pathetic, swirling puddle on the polished floor. I saw my mother flinch, as if she were about to call them off, but just then, my father walked in.
"The defiant brat," he snarled. "Hit him harder."
My mother opened her mouth to protest, but my father shot her a look of pure contempt. "What are you worried about? He's a man. Can't he take a little pain?"
As the blood loss intensified, my consciousness began to fade.
I drifted into a distant memory. Jane and I were children. She saw a music box in a store window and had to have it. We already had a room full of them at home, so my mother refused. Jane secretly stole our mother's favorite jade bracelet, sold it for a pittance, and bought the music box. When my mother found out, her rage was biblical. She made us kneel in the study. "If no one confesses to being the thief, you will both be punished."
Jane was trembling, her face pale with terror. Just as my mother raised the cane, I spoke. "I took it. I wanted to buy a video game."
That day, I was beaten half to death. My back was a bloody mess. I overheard my mother telling my father, "Steals a bracelet as a child, he'll be robbing banks as an adult. We've been too soft on him. A boy must be raised with a firm hand and a lean purse."

A searing pain jolted me back to the present.
My father was pouring boiling water from a teapot onto my hands. They were instantly scalded, turning a painful, angry red.
"See? That woke him up," my father said dismissively. "Boys aren't so delicate. A few kicks and a little hot water won't kill him." He sneered at me. "Now get up and get out of here. Don't embarrass us any further. This isn't over. We'll deal with you at home."
I followed my father to his car. So this is what the inside of a Rolls-Royce looked like.
The car sped towards a gated community in the suburbs. I stared in shock at the sprawling mansions, each sitting on acres of manicured land.
My father snorted. "Don't be seduced by material things. It seems our years of training still haven't been enough."
I lowered my head and said nothing more.
When the car stopped in the driveway of our villa, I was stopped by a bodyguard as I tried to enter. "Young Master, your mother has instructed you to kneel in the courtyard and reflect on your actions."
He placed a steel washboard on the hot gravel.
It was July. The sun was a merciless hammer. The heat made black spots dance in my vision. Sweat dripped onto the ground, and my throat felt like it was coated in sand.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see my parents and Jane in the dining room, eating chilled sweet bean soup. My mother, worried Jane didn't have enough, poured her own bowl into her daughter's. Jane smiled sweetly.
A pang of bitterness shot through me. My mother had never, not once, treated me with such tenderness. Any treat, any new toy, any nice piece of clothingit always went to Jane first. A boy needs to learn hardship, they always said.
The cook gave me a worried look from the kitchen.
But my mother's voice was cold and clear. "If he can't even endure this, he's useless. Let him kneel. When he's ready to admit he was wrong, he can come inside."

3
The third time I fainted and was revived with a splash of cold water, my mother was standing over me with an umbrella, her face a mask of disappointment. "So fragile," she muttered.
"Your father's blood pressure is acting up again. There's a project site on the east side that needs to be inspected. You'll go in his place. There's also an issue with one of the construction crews there. You'll handle that as well."
I looked up at her, my voice a weak rasp. "But Mom I don't feel well. Can I just"
"I knew it," she cut me off, her voice sharp as a whip. "We've been too lenient with you. You're useless. Your father is getting older, his health is failing, and you can't even be bothered to help with a simple task?" She shook her head. "We've raised a thankless snake. How can we ever trust you with the family business?"
Sweat stung my open wound, making me gasp in pain.
Seeing my distracted state only angered her more. "You have no respect! When a parent is speaking to you, you listen! Do you have any sense of responsibility? Any discipline?"
"Mom, please. I think I'm going to pass out. Can I just rest for a little while?"
She glanced at my pale face, and her tone softened, but only slightly. "Ethan, we're doing this for your own good. A man must act like a man. Here's the deal: you go, you handle everything, and when you get back, I'll make you your favorite vegetable soup."
Without waiting for a reply, she had the bodyguards haul me into a car. She got into another one to follow, to make sure I complied.
The project was on a barren, sun-scorched mountain. There wasn't a single tree for shade. It was high noon, and the sun was at its most brutal. The construction workers were all resting in the temporary shelters.
"That's the site," she said, pointing. "The foundation isn't even dug yet, and the deadline is approaching. Your father is so worried he can't even eat. You need to do your part."
I looked at the blazing sun. "Mom, it's too hot. Even the workers are on break"
"Who are you, and who are they? If you don't discipline yourself, do you want to end up like them?" she snapped. "I want to see if the sun can actually kill a person."

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