My Cancer Diagnosis Ended Their Ten-Year Test

When I am ten, Dad is diagnosed with uremia. To pay for his treatment, my family sell our house and rack up millions in debt. At 13, I drop out of school to work. I haul bricks at construction sites during the day, unload cargo at the docks at night, and wash dishes at a restaurant in the early hours of the morning. When I have a fever, I can't afford medicine. Even when I cough up blood, I can only wipe it away in secret. Every month, as long as I get my wages, I transfer every last cent to Dad. At 20, I am diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer. The doctor says I have at most a month to live. But when I think of how Dad still needs dialysis next week, I tear up my hospital admission form and take a job hauling liquor bottles at a hotel. But as I walk past a private room on the top floor, I see Dad, who's supposed to be bedridden, dressed in a suit, looking hale and hearty. Everyone around him addresses him with deference as the chairman. I stand frozen outside the door, clutching the crates. My mind goes blank. Someone in the private room laughs and asks, "You've been faking your illness for ten years. Aren't you afraid you'll drive your son to his death?" Dad casually swirls his wineglass and answers, "This is all part of testing my heir. It's the only way to see what kind of person he really is." Mom smiles. "He didn't even go to university because he wanted to pay for your treatment. All these years, he hasn't spent a single penny on himself. He's proven himself to be loyal and devoted to his family. He deserves to inherit the family business." Dad nods in satisfaction. "We'll tell him the truth on his birthday next month. He'll be ecstatic to know he's the heir to Emerson Group." I stare at my diagnosis. I'm afraid I won't be ecstatic. Next month is my 20th birthday, and according to my doctor, it's also my last day alive.