My Rich Family Thinks I’m Scamming Them

“Alistair has a fine specimen of wild Phoenix Root there. He paid $1 million for it at auction. That was thoughtful of him.”

The moment Mother sent the message to the family group chat, a string of heart emojis appeared beneath it.

My younger brother, Alistair Spencer, sent a voice message. His tone was gentle and obedient.

“As long as Grandpa gets better, no amount of money is too much.

“Oh, right. Didn’t Eliana prepare a surprise for Grandpa, too?”

My eldest sister, Eliana Spencer, replied almost immediately.

Eliana: [I’ve contacted a team of neurological rehabilitation specialists overseas. When I return to the country, I’ll bring them to the old residence to examine Grandpa.]

Father, who rarely spoke in the group chat, sent a smiling emoji.

Father: [You two have been such devoted children. Your mother and I are so proud to have raised you.]

I sat in the dimly lit bedroom of the old residence, holding my phone in one hand and a sewing needle in the other.

The photo on the screen practically glowed with gold. The wild Phoenix Root rested in a rosewood box, an auction certificate tucked beside its tangled roots.

I could not make heads or tails of the certificate. All I could think was that the Phoenix Root did not look as sturdy as the radishes growing on the mountain behind our house.

“See that?”

One of the family butlers, Mr. Timothy Zellen, stood behind me and tapped the screen with a finger.

“Miss. Eliana is bringing in specialists, and Mr. Alistair bought a Phoenix Root worth a million dollars. They really care about Mr. Spencer Sr.’s well-being. What have you, his own grandson, even prepared?”

I quickly put down my phone and flipped the care pad in my hands over, hiding the patches I had sewn onto it.

“I haven’t finished preparing anything yet.”

Mr. Zellen scoffed, “Fair enough. You spent twenty years in the mountains. What else would you know besides feeding chickens and working the fields? Just don’t drag in two sacks of potatoes and call it a heartfelt gift for Mr. Spencer Sr..”

My face burned with embarrassment, but I did not argue.

Mr. Zellen was not wrong.

Of the Spencer family's three children, I truly was the most embarrassing one for them to showcase in public.

Eliana had received an elite education since childhood and joined the family company in her early twenties.

Although Alistair was not a biological Spencer, he could play the piano, fence, and speak foreign languages. Everyone praised him as the perfect example of a young gentleman from a distinguished family whenever he accompanied our parents to events.

As for me, even after being brought back, I could never remember the right way to use a set of fine dining cutlery.

At my first family dinner, I used a soup spoon to scoop up dessert. Mother forbade me from coming downstairs for three whole days.

Later, Grandpa suffered a stroke and became paralyzed, leaving him in need of constant care.

Father and Mother did not even bother to ask my opinion. They simply had the chauffeur take me to the old family residence on the outskirts of the city.

During my first month there, Mr. Zellen informed me that the family had transferred my nursing allowance, which was $150.

I was overjoyed for an entire night.

Back in the mountains, I spent my days digging for medicinal herbs with my adoptive father, and even then, we could barely save $150 in a month.

If the Spencer family was willing to give me that much, I was already more than grateful.

If I could not afford fine vegetables, I would turn over the soil in the yard and grow my own lettuce, green beans, and tomatoes.

If I could not afford a caregiver, I would bathe Grandpa, turn him over in bed, and massage his hands and feet every day.

When his care pads wore out, I cut up old bedsheets, boiled the pieces in a big pot, then laid them out in the sun to dry, one by one.

Grandpa could no longer speak, but his eyes followed me wherever I went.

After I finished wiping his face one day, his fingers twitched ever so slightly. I leaned closer and pressed my ear to his mouth.

“Grandpa, are you thirsty?”

He blinked once. I immediately helped him sit up and carefully fed him half a cup of cool water.

Mr. Zellen leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, his face twisted in disapproval.

“Mr. Spencer Sr. has always lived in luxury. Even his drinking water should come from a temperature-controlled purifier. Do you expect to get away with giving him water in that beat-up mug?”

I lowered my gaze to the mug in my hands.

The paint around the rim had chipped in a few places, but I had scrubbed it clean several times. It was spotless.

“The temperature-controlled kettle broke,” I explained. “I asked a repairman about it. It’ll cost more than $50 to fix. This month’s money has to go toward Grandpa’s medication. I can’t afford the repair yet.”

Mr. Zellen’s expression darkened.

“The Spencer family gives you money every month, and you're still standing here whining about being broke? If you can’t get the job done, stop making excuses.”

I was about to explain further when the oxygen concentrator beside Grandpa’s bed suddenly let out a shrill alarm.

Grandpa’s body jerked violently, and his lips began turning purple.

“Grandpa!”

I lunged toward the machine and checked the flow meter. The needle was stuck at the lowest setting, completely motionless.

Sweat poured down my face as I hurriedly disconnected the oxygen tube, checked the fittings, and tapped the machine’s casing the way the repairman had taught me.

The machine clicked twice. At last, oxygen began flowing again.

I sank to my knees beside the bed and held Grandpa’s icy hand. For a long time, I was too afraid to let go.

By the time the repairman arrived, night had fallen. He opened up the machine, took one look inside, and shook his head.

“This thing’s been running for over ten years. The components are all worn out. It won’t last much longer even if I repair it. You’d better replace it as soon as possible.”

I asked in a soft voice, “How much would a new one cost?”

“A reliable domestic model that can last you a good long while? Around $1,000.”

$1,000. I counted it over and over in my head.

At $150 a month, even if I did not spend a single cent on food or anything else, it would take me about seven months to save that much.

From outside the door, Mr. Zellen shouted impatiently.

“Zachary! What are you dawdling around for? Master Alistair wants some homemade chicken soup. Go butcher the chicken in the backyard and get it simmering. Have the chauffeur take it into the city tomorrow morning.”

I had raised that hen for more than half a year. I initially planned to cook it for Grandpa to help him regain his strength.

I glanced at Grandpa lying in bed, then quietly answered, “Coming.”

Late that night, after finishing the chicken soup, I returned to the bedroom.

The oxygen concentrator beeped again. Clutching the spare oxygen bag, I kept watch beside Grandpa’s bed all night.

Just before dawn, I gently rubbed his frail, bony hand and made a quiet decision.

$1,000. It was a small sum in comparison to a human life.

Whether it meant gathering herbs in the mountains all day or weaving baskets late into the night, I would find a way to buy Grandpa a new oxygen machine, no matter how long it took or how hard I had to work.