After the Countdown

The air hung heavy for 10 whole seconds.

"You... how come..." my sister, hiding behind my mother, asked. Her voice trembled as if she'd seen a ghost.

"I'm still alive," I said.

My father's expression changed, and he forced a smile. "I'm glad you're still alive. This is great..."

He nudged my mother and said, "Go make breakfast!"

My mother agreed in a daze. She walked to the door, then looked back at me, her expression so complicated I couldn't tell what she was thinking.

For the first time in 18 years, I felt like something was off with my family.

Breakfast was toast and eggs.

As usual, my sister put an egg in front of me. I reached out to take it.

Slap!

My hand was heavily smacked by my mother, instantly turning red.

"How old are you? Why are you still taking your sister's egg?! You're so inconsiderate."

I pulled my hand back and just finished the toast.

After breakfast, I volunteered to wash the dishes.

Before this, when I offered to do the dishes, my mother would stop me immediately. She would smile dotingly and say, "Honey, you don't need to do that."

This time, she looked at me coldly and said nothing.

After washing the dishes, I forgot to wring out the dishrag and left it on the edge of the sink.

My mother walked in, and when she saw the dishrag, she instantly turned furious.

"Are you stupid? Why are you leaving the dishrag like that? Do you want it to get moldy?!

I froze for a moment and quickly went to grab the dishrag.

"I raised you for 18 years!" she followed behind me, her voice shrill, "We always give you the best of everything. The eggs are yours, the meat is yours, the new clothes are yours. Has your sister ever worn anything new?! You can't even wash dishes properly..."

"Mom, I washed the dishes. It's just the dishrag..."

"How dare you talk back to me, you insolent brat?!" She snatched the dishrag from me and threw it on the floor.

"Look at you! What's with the long face? You're 18 years old, but you can't even wring a dishrag dry, you good-for-nothing!"

My father walked over. He looked at my mother's ferocious expression, then at my bewildered face.

He waved his hand, as if to quell a meaningless argument. "Stop arguing. Get back to work."

I bit my lip and asked weakly, "Mom, Dad, are you guys treating me like this because I didn't die?"

They instantly stiffened. My father took a deep breath, smiled awkwardly, and said, "We're just... not used to it yet. We need some time to… process it…"

They walked away, murmuring, "How can he just decide to not die? What's his problem?"

I didn't understand. Shouldn't they be happy that I was still alive?

I looked out the window.

The sunlight was still the same as the sunlight the day before, but for some reason, it felt much colder.