A Dying Girl's Payback

At 3:15 PM, I walked out of the examination room at Boston Medical Center, clutching the thin diagnosis paper in my hand.

"Pancreatic cancer, late stage." The doctor's words still echoed in my ears, his practiced sympathy almost made me laugh. He said I had three to six months left, suggesting I immediately inform my family and start planning treatment options.

I shook my head with a bitter smile. "They won't believe me."

The doctor paused, probably thinking I was talking nonsense. After all, what family wouldn't care if their child was dying?

If he had met the Martinez family, he wouldn't think that way.

As I walked out of the hospital entrance, the autumn sunlight stung my eyes.

I tilted my face toward the sky. Today was October 18th, my twentieth birthday. Twenty years ago today, my mother Carmen gave birth to me, but she's probably forgotten this date by now. After all, compared to her "problem daughter," she has more important things to worry about.

Like Grace's acceptance letter.

I stood on the street for a long time, clutching my death sentence, not knowing where to go.

Maybe I should buy myself a cake, celebrate my last birthday?

But the thought of making a wish alone in front of a cake seemed even more ridiculous. What would I wish for? That my family would remember my birthday? That this diagnosis was fake? Or that I could live to see Christmas this year?

Forget it, I should just go home. Maybe they did remember, maybe I was overthinking. Maybe when I open the door, Mom will have made me a birthday cake, hear them singing "Happy Birthday Nova." Maybe when I tell them this terrible news, Dad Miguel will hold me tight, and Mom will cry and say it's okay, we'll face this together.

With this last shred of hope, I slowly walked home.

I could hear laughter spilling out before I even reached the door. My heart jumped—were they actually throwing me a surprise party?

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

"Grace, you're amazing! Early admission to Harvard!" Mom Carmen's voice was loud and excited as she snapped photos of Grace in the center of the living room.

I froze in the doorway, taking in the scene. Colorful streamers hung across the living room, and on the coffee table sat an elegant cake with pink birthday candles.

Dad Miguel held up a champagne glass, his face beaming with pride. My two brothers, Diego and Santos, surrounded Grace, showering her with praise.

"I always knew our little princess was the best!" Dad was grinning from ear to ear.

Grace wore a pink dress, standing in the center like a real princess, wearing that sweet, innocent smile of hers. Her eyes sparkled like stars, captivating everyone's attention.

I stood in the doorway like an outsider, watching this joyful gathering. No one noticed I had come home. No one even looked up.

"Today is my birthday," I said softly, my voice so weak amid the celebration.

"Daddy, Mommy, look how great I am!" Grace suddenly threw herself at Dad, her voice sweet as honey. "I worked so hard studying. Don't I deserve a reward?"

My voice was completely drowned out.

I walked into the living room, speaking a little louder: "Today is my birthday."

Mom finally heard me but just gave me an impatient glance. "Nova, stop it. Today is Grace's big day. Can't you think about someone else for once?"

"But..." I pulled out the diagnosis paper, my hand trembling slightly. "I have cancer."

The entire living room went quiet for a second, then Dad frowned. "Not this again. Nova, can't you stop doing this? Every time Grace has something good happen, you have to make a scene. Do you really get that much satisfaction from faking illness for attention?"

"I'm not pretending!" I held the diagnosis paper higher. "This is a real diagnosis—late-stage pancreatic cancer. I only have three to six months left!"

Mom didn't even look at it, turning back to adjust Grace's dress. "Nova, you're such a disappointment. Grace works hard, gets good results, and instead of congratulating her, you deliberately ruin the mood. What is this, some fake diagnosis you printed off the internet?"

"I think Nova is jealous of me," Grace blinked her innocent big eyes, her voice soft with a hint of hurt. "But I can't help being smart. Please don't blame me, Nova, okay?"

Jealous? Is that what they think this is about?

"Grace is right," Diego nodded in agreement. "Nova, you're twenty years old. Can't you grow up a little?"

"Exactly. What's the point of always competing for attention?" Santos chimed in. "Grace is so exceptional, getting into Harvard at just seventeen."

I looked at them—these people who should love me the most—as they stared at me with disappointment, annoyance, and accusation, like I was some attention-seeking clown.

"I really do have cancer," I made one last attempt, my voice already choked with tears. "Today is my birthday. I'm twenty today."

"Enough!" Dad's voice suddenly turned severe. "Go to your room! Stop ruining the atmosphere!"

"Nova, you're being terrible!" Mom was angry now. "Today is Grace's celebration. How could you do this to her? Look how upset she is!"

I turned to look at Grace, who indeed had tears in her eyes, looking so pitiful it would break anyone's heart.

"I didn't mean to, Nova," Grace said softly, tears welling up. "If my Harvard acceptance makes you unhappy, I can turn it down."

The perfect victim. Always making me look like the villain.

"Absolutely not!" Mom immediately shielded Grace. "Why should Grace give up such a great opportunity because of Nova's unreasonable behavior? Harvard! A school so many people dream of!"

Everyone was speaking up for Grace. Everyone was blaming me. I clutched the diagnosis paper tightly, feeling like my heart was being violently torn apart.

"Go to your room!" Dad pointed toward the stairs. "Think it over and come back when you're ready to apologize!"

I turned and walked toward the stairs, each step feeling like agony. Behind me, I heard Mom comforting Grace: "Ignore her. Let's continue celebrating. Come on, make a wish."

I rushed back to my room and slammed the door shut. Their laughter felt like daggers in my back.

I sat on the edge of my bed, looking at the diagnosis in my hand, the words blurring through my tears.

Maybe death isn't so bad. At least I won't have to see their disappointed faces anymore. At least I won't have to keep trying to prove I'm worthy of love.

I pulled open the drawer and took out the utility knife I usually used to open packages. The blade caught the light, sharp and final.

More laughter drifted up from downstairs.

I raised my wrist, looking at the thin veins beneath the skin. Just one quick slice and all the pain would end.

As the blade touched my skin, I closed my eyes.

"Happy Birthday, Nova."

My final birthday present to myself.