Never Again, Not Even as Siblings

"You've really got to hurry, young lady. Cemetery plots are in high demand right now."

The cemetery owner Terry Cole sighed, making it clear that talk was cheap and he wouldn't hold anything without cash in hand.

I couldn't blame him.

I had been out to look at the cemetery several times over the past year, but I hadn't booked a single plot because they were all way out of my budget.

Whatever money I had left was barely scraping by for medication and treatment, forcing me to check back every now and then just hoping to score a cheaper spot.

Every single time Mr. Cole asked me which one I wanted, I would just stammer awkwardly, "Never mind, I'll bring my family to look at it next time."

This time, my voice was completely steady. "Don't worry, I'm actually buying it this time."

After hanging up, my phone screen went back to the crowdfunding page.

Amid a sea of well-wishes for a speedy recovery, my brother Dylan Mitchell’s message stood out like a sore thumb: [If you actually drop dead, let me know so I can throw a party.]

I read it over and over again, still struggling to believe those words came from my own flesh and blood.

Still, thanks to his single-dollar donation, my wallet balance hit an even ten thousand, finally clearing the minimum limit to cash out.

I chewed my dry lip and reached out to hit the withdrawal request.

Right then, a brand-new donation notification popped up on my screen.

It was from Summer Prescott, the girl my brother had been sponsoring. She had donated a single penny, paired with a message: [Eleanor, just come back home. If you sincerely apologize, Dylan will forgive you. Please don't pull stunts like faking things ever again.]

My fingers instantly locked around my phone in a death grip.

However, after a long moment of thought, I typed nothing, swallowed my anger, and hit the cash-out button.

My rescue cat, Lucky, sensed that something was wrong and started rubbing against my ankles.

I crouched down to pet its head, dumping the last of our dwindling cat food into its bowl.

It let out an affectionate little meow, then scurried over on its three good legs to dig in. Lucky was a stray with a missing leg. As it ate, it kept glancing back to check on me.

Meeting its eager, pleading eyes made my throat tight, dragging me straight back to the night Dylan threw me out.

His voice had been laced with utter disgust, cold enough to cut glass.

"If you won't admit you're wrong, get the hell out! I'm done with you!"