My brother always hated me. He once said to my face that it would be better if I died.
As he wished, I was diagnosed with stomach cancer.
Yet, he regretted it.
I still succumbed to my death.
With a smile on my face, I perished in front of him.
When Kyle's call came in, I had just gotten home.
The diagnosis report in my bag was crumpled into a ball.
He never used to call me voluntarily.
"Two days ago was dad's birthday."
His voice was cold as if laced with frost.
He was always like that.
"Why didn't you come back..."
"Because I didn't want to," I cut him off. "Isn't it enough that you went home?"
"Emma came back from abroad at the beginning of the month."
Emma was my uncle's daughter. She had been living with us since she was a child.
"Just let her do it since you only see her as a sister anyway."
The person over the phone seemed infuriated, calling my name in a low, angered voice, “Miranda Jacob!”
I hung up the call.
The last ray of twilight fell into the room.
As I sat at the desk, I tore that diagnosis into pieces.
When the shredded pieces of paper fell on the desk, the screen of my phone suddenly lit up.
Kyle said, "Mom's death anniversary is approaching."
Kyle Jacob was my older brother.
He hated me.
Because I was the one who robbed him of his mother.
Twenty-odd years ago, my mother had a difficult delivery. While I was being born, she lost her life on the operating table.
It was a murder under the guise of a new life.
Nobody welcomed my arrival.
Because of me, my father lost his beloved wife.
Kyle lost his mother.
This long-lasting hatred started on the day I was born, and it continued to that day.
I did not intentionally miss my father's birthday.
On that day, I was in so much abdominal pain that I was on the brink of fainting when I finally realized something was wrong.
However, perhaps he would feel more comfortable if I did not show up anyway.
