Chapter 1

On the day of my father’s funeral, my mother handed me the responsibility for the next twenty years.

She didn't ask if I was willing.

She simply informed me.

Meanwhile, my sister sat in the dining chair my father used to love most, her head bowed as she wept, looking like the only person in this family who had truly lost something.

After the funeral, we returned to the old house.

The lawyer had already left, and the relatives had mostly dispersed, leaving only the three of us sitting in the dining room.

In the middle of the table sat untouched sandwiches and coffee. Before he passed, my father always said that those who finished organizing a funeral were more exhausted than the dead, and that everyone needed to eat something.

But today, no one had an appetite.

My mother was the first to speak.

"I’m planning to sell the house."

Her voice was somewhat raspy, but she didn't hesitate.

I nodded.

Since my father retired, the house had become harder and harder to maintain. Although the mortgage was long paid off, the roof, plumbing, and garden all cost money to keep up. Selling it was only a matter of time.

"I plan to give all the money from the sale to Rebecca."

I looked up at my mother.

My sister was also stunned for a moment, her eyes still red.

"Mom, I didn't say I wanted—"

"You're going through the hardest time right now," my mother interrupted her. "The divorce lawsuit isn't over yet, the loans are suffocating you, and your company is on the verge of collapse. If your father were still here, he would have made the same decision."

Rebecca lowered her head and whispered, "Thank you, Mom."

I said nothing.

The house belonged to my parents after all. How they chose to handle it was their freedom.

I had been working part-time since college to support myself.

After graduation, I rented my own place, bought my own car, and started my own business. I had never coveted anything from this family.

As if finally remembering me, my mother turned her gaze toward me.

"Evelyn."

"Yes?"

"You don't mind, do you?"

I smiled slightly.

"No."

She visibly let out a sigh of relief.

"I knew it."

She took a sip of her already cold coffee, her tone as if she were speaking of the most natural thing in the world.

"You’ve been the sensible and capable one since you were a child. Rebecca has always needed someone to take care of her, but you're different."

I had been hearing this sentence for over thirty years.

When we were kids and my sister did poorly on a test, my mother would say, "Give your sister a break, she's under a lot of pressure."

When my sister wanted to go out of state for college but couldn't afford the tuition, my mother would say, "Your grades are good, you can just apply for a scholarship."

When my sister got married, my parents took out all their savings to help her with the down payment. When it was my turn to buy a house, my mother patted my shoulder and smiled, "Your job is so good, a mortgage won't be an issue for you."

Every single time, she said the exact same words.

You are more capable.

Later, I finally understood that what that phrase truly meant was—you can do with receiving less.

I had long stopped expecting fairness.

My mother set her cup down and added another thing.

"There's one more matter."

I waited quietly.

"In the future, if my health fails or I need someone to take care of me when I'm old, I’ll leave that to you."

The dining room fell silent for a few seconds.

Rebecca looked up, a flash of discomfort crossing her face.

"Mom..."

My mother waved her hand.

"You can barely manage your own life right now, I can't burden you."

She turned back to me, her tone gentle yet entirely matter-of-fact.

"Evelyn, you have a stable income, your house is spacious, and you live alone with a flexible schedule. I trust you will take care of me."

No discussion.

No questioning.

Not even a single "is that okay."

She had already decided for me.

Suddenly, I remembered the year I turned twenty.

My father had a sudden attack of appendicitis.

My sister and her husband were away on vacation, and their phones couldn't be reached.

I rushed home from college overnight and stayed by his side at the hospital for three days.

At the time, my mother held my hand, her eyes full of gratitude.

She said, "Thank God we have you."

Later, when my father was discharged and my sister returned, the family went out for a celebratory dinner. I didn't go because I had to rush my graduation design.

My mother sent me a photo.

In the photo, the four of them were raising their glasses, smiling happily.

The caption had only one line.

Next time you'll join us.

No one remembered who had kept watch at the hospital for those three days.

Things like this had happened too many times.

So long that I had already learned to stop keeping score.

I looked at my mother.

"Okay."

She smiled.

There was a sense of reassurance in that smile.

As if she had finally laid down her last worry.

Rebecca gently took my mother's hand.

"Mom, don't worry, I will help out in the future too."

My mother patted the back of her hand.

"It’s enough that you have the heart."

With one sentence, the responsibility was placed right back onto me.

Suddenly, I felt a bit tired.

Not just today.

It was the kind of exhaustion accumulated over many, many years.

I stood up and pushed my chair back under the table.

"If there's nothing else, I'll head back first."

My mother nodded.

"Drive safely."

Rebecca walked me to the door.

She hesitated for a moment and said softly, "Evelyn, I know you've carried a lot for this family over the years."

I looked at her.

She continued, "Once I get back on my feet, I will help you."

I didn't answer.

Because I had heard this sentence many times before.

She said it when her business failed.

She said it when she got divorced.

She said it when she couldn't pay her loans.

Every time, she genuinely believed she would give back in the future.

But that "future" never came.

I drove away from the old house.

In the rearview mirror, the house I grew up in grew further and further away.

After my father passed, I thought what I lost was a home.

It wasn't until today that I realized that home actually hadn't had a place for me for many years.

For the next six months, I put all my energy into my work.

My firm took on a large-scale community redevelopment project, and I practically lived between the construction site and meeting rooms every day.

Being busy actually made me feel relieved; at least blueprints wouldn't favor anyone just because someone was the older sister or the more sensible one.

My mother would occasionally call.

Most of the time, it was to tell me how difficult Rebecca's life had been lately.

Sometimes she would ask if I had time to go over and fix something, or to introduce clients to my sister.

What I could help with, I did.

What went beyond my boundaries, I began to refuse.

She would be disappointed, but she didn't lose her temper.

I thought this kind of distance was just right.

Until that Monday, six months later.

At ten in the morning, right after I finished a project meeting, my assistant walked quickly into my office.

"Evelyn, someone is downstairs looking for you."

"Do they have an appointment?"

She shook her head, her expression somewhat hesitant.

"No."

"They've been sitting in the lobby for nearly forty minutes."

"One of the ladies is in a wheelchair."

My heart instantly sank.

I walked quickly to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the lobby.

In the center of the lobby.

My mother sat in a wheelchair, her face pale.

Rebecca stood behind her, one hand holding the wheelchair and the other gripping two suitcases.

They hadn't notified me.

They had come with all their luggage.