My Husband Chose His Brother Over My Dying Father

Six thousand.

I stood in the living room, gripping my fathers hospital admission form. Aaron sat on the sofa, not even looking up.

Your dads surgery? Just wait a bit longer.

Wait for what?

Mark is twelve thousand short on his renovation payment, due by the end of the month. Have your dad try conservative treatment first, then in a couple of months, we can

A couple of months? I stared at him. The doctor said we cant delay it anymore.

He finally looked up at me. Mina, Mark is my brother.

I opened my mouth, but the next words he spoke made the admission form drop from my hand.

Your dad isnt without family. Have your brother pay for half of it.

I dont have a brother. Hed been married for eight years and didnt know I was an only child.

The admission form lay on the floor. I stared at the paper. Aaron had already looked down again, scrolling through his phone.

You what did you say?

Hm? He didnt look up. Have your brother

I dont have a brother.

His finger paused. Huh? He looked up at me, his eyes filled not with guilt, but with confusion, as if Id said something utterly trivial.

Oh, he scratched his head. Well, then have your dad just use his health insurance for now. Insurance covers a lot.

I stood my ground. Eight years. This man didn't know I was an only child. He didn't know my parents only had me. He didn't know I only went home to one family every Christmas. He didn't know I had no brother. He knew nothing.

But he knew his brother was twelve thousand short on renovations.

Aaron Davies. I used his full name. He finally sensed my distress, putting down his phone to look at me. You dont even know Im an only child?

He opened his mouth. Well

Eight years of marriage, I said, my voice dangerously calm. You know your brothers monthly mortgage payment, you know his car needs maintenance, you know his wife wants a new phoneand you dont know I dont have a brother?

The living room was silent. He stared at me for three seconds. Then he said, Alright, alright, I made a mistake. As for your dad, youll have to figure something out. I really cant spare anything right now. With that, he picked up his phone and walked into the bedroom.

I stood in the living room. The admission form was still on the floor. He had stepped over it. He hadnt seen it. Or hed seen it and hadnt bothered to bend down.

I bent down to pick it up. There was a footprint on the paper. The footprint was right over the words "Surgery Date." I stared at that footprint for a long time. A very long time.

Then I folded the admission form, put it in my bag, and opened my mobile banking app. My balance: 4,271.68. This was everything I had.

Eight years. All I had left was four thousand two hundred. His brother needed twelve thousand for renovations, and he didnt bat an eye. My dad needed six thousand for surgery, and he told me to figure something out.

I closed my phone and stood in the living room. It was already dark outside. The living room lights weren't on. I didn't turn them on either.

The next morning, I went to the hospital. My dad lay in his hospital bed, looking noticeably thinner. "Mina's here?" He offered a weak smile. "Don't keep running over here, you're busy with work."

My mom was peeling an apple beside him. "Where's Aaron? Why didn't he come?"

"He's working overtime."

Mom said nothing, continuing to peel her apple. I sat down, studying my dad's complexion. It was sallow, with dark circles under his eyes. He was sixty-one. He'd worked his whole life as an electrician, his hands thick with calluses.

"Dad, about the surgery"

"No rush, no rush," he waved his hand. "Insurance will cover part of it. Your mom and I have some savings; it'll be enough." I knew they had no savings. Last year, Mom had knee replacement surgery, which cost over forty thousand, completely draining their nest egg.

"Dad, I'll figure it out."

"No need, no need. Just live your own life well. Is Aaron good to you?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Then that's all that matters."

I sat for an hour. Leaving the hospital, I stood by the entrance for a moment. Then I opened my phone and scrolled through my chat history with Aaron. I scrolled back.

January.

"Mark wants to get a new car this year. Even a used one would be fine. Should we lend him three thousand first?"

"Okay."

March.

"My mom said Mark's wife is pregnant and needs to recuperate. Transfer two thousand to my mom this month."

"Okay."

June.

"Mark opened a small shop and was short on startup capital, five thousand. He'll definitely pay it back by the end of the year."

"Okay."

He didn't pay it back by the end of the year. I kept scrolling. Last January.

"Mark is short on his down payment for a house. Let's lend him eight thousand. He's family; we can't just watch him struggle."

"Okay."

I scrolled through more than twenty screens. Every screen had Mark's name on it. Every time, my reply was "Okay." One word. Always just one word.

I tucked my phone back into my pocket. On my way to work, I passed a stationery store. I remembered my daughter, Lily, saying she wanted a set of markers. I went in and asked for the price: forty-eight. I hesitated in front of the shelf. In the end, I bought a twelve-color set. Eighteen. It would be enough.

Lily is nine this year. She's never had tutoring classes. Not because she doesn't want to learn, but because there's no money to spare. My brother-in-law Mark's son, five years old, is in three extracurricular classes. Aaron had said, "Mark doesn't earn much, but his child's education can't be neglected." He'd never said anything about Lily's education being neglected.

During lunch, my colleague, Ms. Liu, noticed I was distracted. "What's wrong?"

"My dad needs surgery, and we're short on money."

"Did you talk to Aaron about it?"

"I did. He can't spare anything."

Ms. Liu's chopsticks paused. "Then... what about his brother?"

"His brother's renovation is twelve thousand short. That took priority."

Ms. Liu looked at me, opened her mouth, and finally said, "Aaron has it tough too, with elderly parents and young children. Try talking to him again."

Talk to him again. For eight years, every word I've said has been a "talk to him again." And after talking, the money still flows to his brother. I didn't respond, just continued eating.

That night, when I got home, Aaron said at the dinner table, "My mom is coming to stay for a few days tomorrow."

"Why?"

"To help us with Lily. Also, to see if Mark's renovation needs anything more."

"More?"

"Yeah, the budget went a little over."

I put down my chopsticks. "Aaron, my dad's surgery"

"I know," he waved his hand. "Don't rush me. I'll figure something out once Mark's renovation is done."

"When will that be?"

"Soon, soon." He picked up a piece of food, put it in his mouth. The topic was closed, just like that. Gone with the wind. Lily sat quietly beside me, eating her dinner. She glanced at me, said nothing. A nine-year-old child had already learned to read the adults' expressions.

My mother-in-law, Mrs. Davies, arrived the next day. She carried a bag of fruit and sat on the sofa. "Mina, please be understanding. Mark's renovation really is urgent."

"Mom, I know."

"Once Mark's settled, I'll have him treat you to dinner."

"No need."

"Oh, come on, we're family. Don't always keep such clear accounts. You earn more than Mark; what's wrong with helping him out?" she said, smiling, her tone gentle. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I earn more. Yes, I do earn more. I'm a quality control supervisor at a garment factory, with a monthly salary of eight thousand five hundred. Aaron drives a truck for a logistics company, earning six thousand a month. I earn more. But I didn't know "earning more" had become "should contribute more."

"Mom, my dad needs surgery"

"I heard Aaron mention it," Mrs. Davies patted my hand. "Your dad has health insurance, right? Insurance covers a lot. For the rest, you can scrape it together. If worst comes to worst, borrow some from your relatives."

Borrow from my relatives. For her youngest son, she deducted from my salary card. For my dad, she told me to borrow from my relatives. I looked at her. She was still smiling. "You worry too much. We're family; we help each other. When Mark succeeds, he won't forget you, will he?"

"When." I had heard that word for eight years. When Mark earns money, he'll pay it back. When Mark gets stable, he won't need help. When Mark... "When" never came.

I said nothing, getting up to wash the dishes in the kitchen. The faucet ran, the rushing water covering the laughter from the living room. My mother-in-law was talking to Aaron: "Mark's shop just got a new shipment of goods. He might need a little more" I closed the kitchen door. The water was cold. My hands were immersed in the cold water, washing one bowl after another.

When I reached the seventh bowl, I paused. I didn't know what I was thinking. I just felt my hands were cold, and my heart was cold too. Seven bowls. Four people for dinner, seven bowls. I used three. Aaron used a soup bowl and a rice bowl. Lily used one. My mother-in-law used one. Every single one was washed by me. For eight years, every single one was washed by me.

That night, my mom called. "Mina, your dad's surgery fee"

"Mom, I'm working on it."

"Did you... talk to Aaron?"

"I did."

Silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. "Your mom understands Aaron's difficulties," my mom's voice was a little low. "It's hard to push aside his brother's issues. You... don't argue with Aaron. Talk it out properly. Life still has to go on."

Life still has to go on. Don't argue. Talk it out properly. Even my own mom was saying this.

"Mom, I understand."

"Don't worry, your dad said it's okay to delay a bit longer."

"It's fine. I'll figure it out."

I hung up the phone. I sat on the edge of the bed. Aaron was already asleep, snoring. Today, he had transferred three thousand to his brother, saying it was "urgent for stock." My dad's surgery admission form was in my bag. The surgery date was seventeen days away. I was still short fifty-eight thousand.

I took out my phone and opened my banking app. I scrolled down the transaction history. One by one. Three thousand. Five thousand. Eight thousand. Twenty thousand. Fifteen thousand. All under the name Mark Davies. In January, March, June, October. Every year.

I didn't calculate the total. I didn't dare. I was afraid the number I calculated would make me unable to sit on that bed for another second.

On the third day. I went to the finance office to ask when the year-end bonus would be distributed. Ms. Liu from finance said, "The fifteenth of next month." It was too late. My dad's surgery was in eleven days.

During my lunch break, I went to the bank and requested a complete eight-year transaction history. It was twenty-three pages of A4 paper. I sat in the bank lobby on a waiting chair, flipping through them page by page. I wasn't doing math. I was confirming. Confirming how every penny had left our account.

March 2017, Mark's wedding, a gift of twenty thousand, paid by us. September 2017, Mark bought a motorcycle, twelve thousand, "borrowed." All of 2018, a fixed two thousand transferred to my mother-in-law every month, supposedly for "elderly care." My mother-in-law immediately transferred it to MarkI only found this out later. 2019, Mark's down payment for a house, eighty thousand. 2020, Mark's small shop stock, borrowed four times in total, sixty-three thousand.

2021 I stopped. April 2021. A transfer. Thirty-five thousand. Memo: Mark's car loan. I didn't recall Aaron ever mentioning this to me. I checked my phone chat logs. Nothing. This thirty-five thousand, Aaron had transferred himself. Without telling me.

I continued flipping. July 2021. Twenty thousand. Memo blank. Recipient: Mark Davies. Aaron had transferred this himself too. Also without telling me.

I sat in the bank lobby. The air conditioning was strong, but my back was sweating. I wasn't angry. I was scared. I didn't know how many other transactions I was unaware of. I didn't continue flipping. I folded the twenty-three pages, put them in my bag.

I left the bank, walked to the roadside, and stood for a while. Then I went to the supermarket, bought groceries, and went home to cook.

That night, Aaron came home as usual. Ate dinner as usual. Scrolled on his phone as usual. And as usual, he didn't ask me how my day was. I sat across from him at the dinner table, watching him. He scooped the last bit of rice into his mouth. "Today Mark said that the renovation is still short"

"Aaron." He stopped.

"What's wrong?"

I looked at him. I wanted to ask so many things. I wanted to ask about the thirty-five thousand. I wanted to ask about the twenty thousand. I wanted to ask how many other transactions I was unaware of over these eight years. But I didn't ask. Because I knew how he would answer.

"He's my brother." He would say that. Just like he had said it a hundred times before.

"Nothing," I said. "I'll clean up after dinner." I picked up the bowls and went to the kitchen. The kitchen door closed. I placed the bowls in the sink. The faucet wasn't on. I stood for a minute. Then I opened my phone and searched for a phrase: "Divorce asset division."

Nine days until the surgery. I did something.

I took half a day off and went to a legal aid center. The lawyer who met me was a woman in her thirties, Ms. Frost.

"Ms. Davies, please tell me your situation first."

I placed the twenty-three pages of bank statements on the table. "This is the joint account statement for my husband and me over the past eight years. The highlighted entries are transfers to his brother."

Ms. Frost flipped through a few pages, her eyebrows arching slightly. "I haven't finished calculating the total," I said, "but it won't be small."

"Are you considering divorce?"

"I'm not sure yet. But I want to know, if I divorce, what do these transfers to his brother count as?"

"If they are large gifts made without your consentor disguised as loans but effectively giftsyou can make a claim during asset division."

"What does that mean?"

"It means if you can prove these funds were given unilaterally by him, without loan agreements or repayment records, the court will consider it squandering marital property, and you can request a larger share of the assets."

I sat there, absorbing her words. "There's one more thing," I said. "My mother-in-law owns an old house. I want to confirm its property rights."

Ms. Frost glanced at me. "You suspect"

"I'm not sure. But I want to check."

That afternoon, I returned to work. That night, I went home, cooked dinner as usual, washed dishes as usual, and helped Lily with her homework as usual. Aaron was on the phone in the living room.

"Alright, Mark, don't worry, big brother's got your back on this one."

I heard him clearly from the kitchen. Big brother's got your back.

Who had my back? My dad was in a hospital bed, still short fifty-eight thousand for his surgery. No one had my back.

The next day, Ms. Frost called. "Ms. Davies, I found it. The house on Flagship Road owned by your mother-in-law was transferred last October."

"Transferred to whom?"

"Mark Davies."

I gripped my phone, standing outside the factory. The sun was blinding. "When was it transferred?"

"October twelfth last year."

October twelfth last year. That day, I was at the hospital with my mom for her knee surgery. That day, Aaron said he was "out running errands." That day, my mother-in-law transferred the house, worth eight hundred thousand, to her youngest son.

Aaron and I had been married for eight years and received nothing.

"Thank you, Ms. Frost."

"Ms. Davies, my advice is"

"I know. I'm preparing."

I hung up the phone. I stood in the sunlight, the sun beating down on me. But I felt cold.

That night, I went home, closed the bedroom door, and spread the twenty-three pages of bank statements on the bed. I took a pen and calculated, entry by entry. Each one I marked with the date, amount, purpose. Some had memos, making them easy to track. Others were blank, so I cross-referenced them with chat logs, line by line.

Two hours. I came up with a number. Four hundred thirty-seven thousand six hundred.

Eight years. All I had left was four thousand two hundred. Because four hundred thirty-seven thousand six hundred had gone to Mark Davies.

I stared at that number. Then I tidied up the statements and locked them in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Aaron wouldn't search through my drawers. He never cared what was in my drawers. Just like he didn't know I was an only child.

I turned off the light. Lay in the darkness. Aaron was already asleep beside me. I lay awake, eyes wide open. My dad's surgery was in seven days. The money wasn't fully raised yet. But my heart felt a little calmer. Because I finally knew one thing. It wasn't that I had no money. It was that all my money had been siphoned away by this family.