The Riverside Villa

The day I received the diagnosis of advanced stomach cancer, I sat for a long time on a bench in the Oncology Department hallway, my fingers repeatedly tracing the word "advanced," until the edges of the paper frayed — like my heart, wrinkled and bruised. Outside the window, leaves from the plane tree twirled as they fell, sunlight filtering through the gaps, dazzling my eyes. The patches of light flickered on and off, like the slow countdown of my days. My phone vibrated. A message from the agent: "Ms. Collins, the river-view duplex is still available. The owner is eager to emigrate and has lowered the price by another five percent. We can close the deal today." I recalled Mother's phone call three months ago. Mahjong sounds drifted through the receiver. Her voice was tinged with envy: "Mr. Lee's daughter next door married a building materials merchant and moved into a duplex. Their living room is big enough for square dancing." She paused, then added, "You've been out there for ten years; why haven't you been so lucky?" "Mom, when I come back, I'll buy one for you too." At that time, I didn't know my body was already riddled with sores; I only wanted to make Mother happy, never imagining that this promise would have to be fulfilled at the end of my life. With trembling fingers, I opened the transfer interface. As I sent the two hundred thousand deposit, I stared blankly at the screen—this was my savings from ten years: squeezing into a small partitioned room in an urban village after graduation, cooling myself with a damp towel in the summer; working as a project assistant, pulling all-nighters for three months straight; when I was carried out of the company with gastric bleeding, I was still clutching the proposal; last year, after being scraped by an electric bike, the five thousand compensation all went to my family. This money, soaked in sweat and pain, spent to bring a smile to Mother, somehow feels worth it. Before going home, I dyed my hair black. Chemotherapy hadn't started yet, but I knew it would cause hair loss. I feared Mother's questions, and even more, I feared Older Sister's tear-filled voice saying, "Younger Sister doesn't like me; she doesn't even want her hair to be black like mine." In the mirror, my face was pale, the skin beneath my eyes darkened, but when I thought of Mother's smile as she received the Property Ownership Certificate, the corner of my mouth still lifted slightly. "Only three months left. If I can make Mom happy and the family reunite for a few days, it will be worth it." I whispered to myself in front of the mirror, pressing gently on my aching stomach. This pain, compared to fulfilling Mother's dream, hardly mattered.