Dad’s Brain Cancer

Opening my eyes, I was back in my childhood bedroom. I had returned to the day my father lied about having terminal brain cancer.

This time, I saw through him. In my past life, he had fabricated the illness to steal the college fund my late mother left me. He vanished for a year, while I survived on instant noodles and menial jobs, fearing his medical expenses.

He returned with a new wife and a baby boy, claiming she had funded his "recovery." I was forced into servitude as their live-in maid, catering to my pampered brother.

Years later, when that brother needed a heart transplant, my father forged my signature on a donation form. To harvest my heart, he pushed me from a balcony to stage my "accidental" death.

I was sitting on the living room rug pretending to do my math homework when the front door swung open. My father stumbled inside, massaging his temples. He collapsed onto the carpet, clutching his head and groaning in theatrical agony.

"Massiel, help me," he wheezed. "Get the painkillers from my drawer."

Watching this familiar, pathetic performance, I did not burst into panicked tears like I had in my previous life. Honestly, I found it almost hilarious.

When I did not immediately rush to his side, he started rolling around on the floor, cranking up the volume of his wails. "Massiel, please! My head is going to explode!"

In my past life, his Oscar-worthy acting had completely shattered the fragile psyche of a ten-year-old girl. I had cried until my eyes swelled shut, running to fetch my mother's debit card. I had shoved it into his trembling hands, begging him to take the money, go to a private clinic in Switzerland, and listen to the doctors.

I remembered him sitting in a wheelchair at the airport, gently patting my head. He had looked at me with such fake tenderness. "Be a good girl while I am gone, Massiel. Call me if you miss me."

I had watched his cab pull away, sobbing so hard I actually passed out on the sidewalk. A neighbor had to carry me inside. Every morning, I had clutched my mother's silver locket, praying to God to save him.

During the entire year he was gone, he sent me a fifty-dollar grocery card in the first month and then absolutely nothing. I was so fiercely loyal that I never complained. I thought he needed every penny to survive. So, I starved. I wore shoes with holes in the soles, worked illegal hours at a sweaty local laundromat, and wired whatever scraps I saved straight into his account.

And my reward? He walked through the front door a year later with Sarah and her fat baby, Oliver.

I was so young and naive back then. I actually thanked Sarah for saving my dad's life. I let her push me around. She hoarded all the good food and expensive toys for Oliver, turning him into a spoiled, overweight tyrant. Meanwhile, I was severely malnourished. I did all the heavy lifting around the house and barely grew an inch. Kids at school used to joke that I looked like a walking twig.

I tried to complain to my father once. I just wanted a fair share of the groceries. At first, he gave me a condescending lecture about how older sisters need to make sacrifices. When I pushed the issue, he slapped me across the face.

He gave his romance to Sarah, his fatherly love to Oliver, and his explosive rage to me.

Because of the endless chores and the emotional abuse, my grades tanked. I never made it to college. Sarah forced me to take a full-time job at a local canning factory. Every Friday, she confiscated my paycheck to fund Oliver's private school tuition and his brand-new car.

Then came Oliver's heart failure. To save his life, my father pushed me to my death.

I was so obedient. I was so desperate for his love. Being murdered by my own flesh and blood for being too compliant was the sickest joke of all.

Now that I had a second chance, the blindfold was off. I did not want this toxic, cold-blooded excuse for a family anymore.

Of course, directly calling out his lies right now was a terrible move. I was only ten years old. The law would not be on my side.

So, I decided to play along. I ran to the drawer, grabbed his aspirin, and rushed to his side, my face masked in perfect concern. "Dad, why are these headaches getting worse?"

He swallowed a pill dry and let out a long, tragic sigh. "Massiel, the doctors found a tumor in my brain. The only place that can treat it is a specialized clinic overseas. But I just cannot bear the thought of leaving you alone."

I forced a loud, dramatic sob. "Dad, you have to go! Do not worry about me. I am a big girl. I can take care of myself!"

The only difference was that my tears last time were born of sheer terror. Today, I was forcing them out just to hurry the plot along.

"Ah, forget it," he sighed again, laying it on thick. "We just do not have the money for that kind of treatment."

He was waiting for me to offer the debit card. I just kept my head down, crying loudly into my hands, pretending I did not hear the hint.

He did not bring it up again.

I thought I had dodged the bullet, but when I came home from school the next afternoon, there was a sticky note on the kitchen counter.

"Massiel, I am going to Europe for my treatment. I bought you three bulk boxes of instant macaroni. Take care of yourself. Wait for me to come home."

Panic spiked in my chest. I sprinted to my bedroom, dropped to my knees, and pried open the loose floorboard where I kept my mother's debit card. The space was completely empty.

I wiped a dry tear from my cheek, letting out a hollow laugh. What a fantastic father. When his guilt trip failed, he just robbed his own kid blind.

Just like my past life, he only left enough cash to cover the water bill for a month. He barely ever called. But this time, I did not wait by the phone. I did not waste a single second worrying about his health. I threw myself into my textbooks.

Getting a full-ride scholarship to a top-tier university was my only ticket out of this hellhole.

When I ran out of food money, I did my classmates' science projects for cash and went back to sweeping floors at the bakery. I already knew the drill.

A year later, right around Halloween, the front door unlocked. My father stepped into the hallway, looking healthier than ever. Right beside him stood Sarah, rocking a baby boy in her arms.

"Come say hi to your new mom," my father beamed, his face flushed with pride. "And this is your little brother."

I stood at the edge of the hallway, my voice deadpan. "I only have one mother, and she is buried in the cemetery."

His smile instantly hardened into a scowl. "What is wrong with you?" he snapped, stepping forward. "If Sarah had not paid for my medical bills, I would be in a coffin right now. You need to show some respect and be grateful."

I spun on my heel and walked straight to my bedroom.

Paid for his bills? What a joke. He took my mother's life insurance money, rented a nice apartment across town, played house with his mistress, and had a kid. All while I was surviving on instant macaroni and tap water.

"You ungrateful little brat!" He chased after me, pounding his fists against my bedroom door. "I have clearly spoiled you! Where are your manners? Is this the garbage they teach you at school?"

I stood on the other side of the thin wood, screaming back. "You want to talk about manners? My mother was barely cold in her grave before you went out and knocked up some random woman!"

A real tear slipped down my cheek when I said that. I genuinely missed my mom.

Instead of backing down, my father lost his mind. "Who gave you the right to speak to me like that? Are you even my daughter?"

He delivered a brutal kick to the door, splintering the frame.

I could hear Sarah's sugary, fake voice trying to soothe him. "Let it go, honey. She is just a child. We have plenty of time. A little discipline, and she will learn her place."

A shiver ran down my spine. I knew exactly what her version of discipline looked like. It meant treating me like a pack mule, forcing me to do the laundry, scrub the toilets, and eat whatever scraps they left on their plates.

In my past life, there was a day I was so exhausted from doing their chores that I fell asleep at the kitchen table before starting dinner. Sarah had grabbed a wooden flyswatter and whipped my legs raw, then cried to my father, claiming I had attacked her. He had grounded me without even asking for my side of the story.

Sure enough, a few days later, Sarah decided to establish her dominance.

She cornered me in the kitchen, crossing her arms. "Listen up. From now on, you cook breakfast and dinner. You do the laundry. You mop the floors. And from midnight to three in the morning, you stay awake to feed Oliver so I can sleep."

She offered a sickly sweet smile. "I will also find you a weekend job at the diner downtown. You need to bring in some cash to help out. Your father's health is delicate, and I have a baby to raise. It is the least you can do."

She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with malice. "If your dad sees how helpful you are, I am sure he will finally love you."

"I am ten," I replied coldly. "My only job is to study."

In my past life, I had swallowed my pride and agreed, hoping for crumbs of affection. They only took advantage of me. This time, I looked her dead in the eye and refused.

Her fake smile vanished. "Excuse me?" She snatched a heavy wooden spoon from the counter and swung it hard against my calf.

Pain flared up my leg, making me bite my lip to keep from screaming. I shook my head, refusing to back down.

She raised the spoon higher, her face twisting in rage.

My survival instincts kicked in. I dodged the swing, threw open the front door, and bolted onto the front lawn. She chased right after me, completely unhinged.

I sucked in a massive breath and screamed at the top of my lungs. "Help! Please stop hitting me! Do not hurt me, Sarah! Help!"

My shrieks echoed through the quiet suburban street. Doors flew open. Neighbors rushed out of their houses, stepping between me and a furious Sarah. Several women from the neighborhood watch immediately scolded her for chasing a terrified child with a makeshift weapon.

Someone actually called Child Protective Services. A social worker showed up with a police officer, forcing my father and Sarah to sign a formal warning file right in our living room.

Once the authorities left, the house fell into a terrifying silence.

My father glared at me, his eyes filled with disgust. "Are you insane? Kids get spanked, it is completely normal! Plus, you are a girl. If you do not learn how to clean a house now, no man is ever going to marry you."

"I thought you said my education was the most important thing?" I shot back.

He stammered, caught in his own hypocrisy. Finally, he just muttered that I was a nuisance and sent me to bed without dinner.

I locked my door and chewed on a dry pack of ramen, washing it down with tap water.

Sarah did not dare hit me again, but the psychological warfare escalated. She would deliberately serve me plain boiled potatoes while she and my father ate roasted chicken.

One night, I overheard them drinking wine in the kitchen. My father laughed, "That miserable girl is getting way too rebellious. We just need to break her spirit. Thank God I have a son now. Oliver is going to be a real man someday."

Even though I knew exactly who he was, hearing those words still felt like a knife twisting in my ribs. Tears pooled in my eyes. Did he ever remember holding my mother's hand on her deathbed, swearing to God he would protect me?

He probably erased it from his memory the moment she died.

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Will Massiel survive the rising tide? What price will her toxic family pay for their cruelty? Unlock the next chapters to read her ultimate revenge!

Three blank lines

When Oliver turned one, Sarah demanded a family portrait by the ocean. We drove out to a rocky cove.

They told me to wait on a jagged rock outcropping while they walked down the shoreline to take pictures with the baby.

The wind was biting. I sat there, hugging my knees, watching them smile and pose in the distance. They looked like a picture-perfect family in a magazine. I just wanted to be part of it. Every time I tried to walk over, my father would wave his hand dismissively, yelling at me to stay put.

Eventually, they walked so far down the beach that they disappeared behind a cliff.

This had happened in my past life too. Eventually, my dad had driven back to pick me up. I wondered if he would do the same this time.

I curled up on the cold stone, letting my exhaustion take over. Before my mother died, he used to treat me like a princess. We used to build sandcastles right on this very beach. The memory lulled me into a restless sleep.

I woke up shivering violently. The sky was pitch black. The roar of the ocean was deafening. I bolted upright and realized the tide had come in. The ocean had completely swallowed the sand path. I was trapped on a tiny island of rock, surrounded by freezing, violent black water.

Panic seized my chest. Did he leave me here to die because I refused to be their slave this time?

Tears of pure terror streamed down my face. I cursed myself for holding onto a shred of hope that my father actually cared.

Just as the water started splashing over my sneakers, a bright spotlight cut through the fog. A small motorized boat was tearing through the waves toward me. It was the Harbor Patrol. I waved my arms wildly, sobbing in relief.

They pulled me onto the boat, wrapping me in a thick thermal blanket.

The police called my father. He strolled into the coastal precinct an hour later. When he saw me wrapped in the blanket, sipping hot cocoa, a flash of pure annoyance crossed his face.

He marched over and yanked my arm. "I told you to stay exactly where you were! Why did you wander off? You made me search everywhere and wasted police resources!"

He was trying to flip the script, pinning the blame on a ten-year-old before dragging me out the door.

"Hold it right there," the desk sergeant barked, stepping out from behind the counter. "You are a grown man. Do not stand in my station and lie to cover your tracks."

The officer glared at my dad. "Do you know how we found her? A local fisherman called it in. He said he saw a little girl sitting on that rock for six straight hours. She never moved an inch, even when the tide came up. He thought she was trying to end her own life."

"So do not tell me she wandered off," the officer growled.

My father's face turned beet red. He stood there, completely humiliated, unable to form a sentence.

"It is the twenty-first century," the cop continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "You do not get to treat your daughter like garbage just because you finally got a son. Take her home and do your damn job. Because if she makes something of herself one day, she is never going to look back."

"Right, right, of course. I understand completely. I will take better care of her," my father stammered, forcing a polite smile.

The second we stepped out of the precinct into the parking lot, his polite mask dissolved into pure fury. "You useless burden! You could not see us, so you just sat there? Did you do this on purpose to humiliate me in front of the cops? Do you know how bad this makes me look?"

He raised his hand, balling his fingers into a fist.

I stood my ground, my hands curled into tight fists at my sides. "Did you leave me there hoping the ocean would wash me away?"

His hand froze in mid-air. He stared at me for several agonizing seconds, his breathing ragged. He did not say a word.

But his silence was the loudest confession I had ever heard.