My Brother Hated Me Until I Died

Celeste

Advanced stomach cancer. Six months to live.

The doctor's words still echoed in my ears as I walked out of the hospital doors. The Portland sunset was perfect—orange-red light slanting across the sidewalk, so warm and beautiful, as if mocking the devastating news I'd just received.

I crumpled the thin diagnostic report into a ball and stuffed it into the deepest corner of my bag. The paper crinkled softly in my hand, like something inside me quietly breaking apart.

Six months.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to end.

My apartment was terrifyingly quiet, with only my footsteps echoing through the empty living room. I was used to this silence—I'd spent most of my twenty-four years alone. But today's silence was different. There was something final about it.

I collapsed onto the couch, and before I could even process the news, my phone rang. The screen displayed that familiar name—Kieran.

My brother.

Also the last person who'd want to talk to me.

"Hello," I answered, my voice sounding calmer than I expected.

"Yesterday was Dad's birthday," Kieran said, his voice cold as usual, skipping any greeting and getting straight to the point. "Why didn't you come home?"

I closed my eyes. Yesterday, I was at the hospital waiting in line for my test results.

But I couldn't say that.

"Because I didn't want to," I replied, fatigue in my voice. "You were there, right? Isn't that enough?"

"Celeste, you can't keep doing this," Kieran's tone grew impatient. "Delphine came all the way from Boston for it."

Of course, Delphine. Our perfect cousin, the family favorite, the one who could do no wrong. She came back from Boston, so I'm sure the house was plenty lively.

"If she was there, that's all you needed," I said sharply. "After all, she's the only one you consider a sister anyway."

The moment those words left my mouth, I regretted them. Not because they were hurtful, but because they exposed that part of me that never grew up—that little girl desperate to be loved, desperate to be acknowledged, but never getting either.

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds.

"Celeste, what exactly do you want?" Kieran sounded tired. "Grow up, Celeste."

Right, we weren't kids anymore. I was twenty-four and about to die. Yet he still spoke to me in that condescending tone, like I'd forever be his clueless little sister.

I hung up without another word.

My phone vibrated in my hand—probably Kieran calling back—but I didn't answer. I just sat on the couch, watching the last sliver of sunset disappear below the horizon. The sky gradually darkened, and scattered lights began to twinkle across the city, like distant stars.

Maybe they'd grieve for a while after I was gone. Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe there'd be some nice words at my funeral, and then everyone would just... move on. Delphine would still be the perfect cousin, and I'd become just a name mentioned occasionally, a "what if..." kind of regret.

My phone rang again, this time with a text. I didn't want to look, but the screen lit up automatically, and I saw the glaring words:

[Next week is Mom's death anniversary. Hope you can make it.]

Mom's death anniversary.

My birthday.

Twenty-four years ago, my mother died giving birth to me. She lost too much blood on the operating table and never woke up. From the moment I was born, I carried the weight of her death.

Dad never said it outright, but I knew he blamed me. Every year on this day, he would sit at her grave for hours, returning with red-rimmed eyes, then look at me and sigh. Kieran too—he'd give me that complicated look, as if thinking: why couldn't it have been you instead?

I slowly stood up and walked to the dining table, taking out the crumpled diagnostic report from my bag. I carefully unfolded it, reading those medical terms again under the dim light.

Advanced stomach cancer. Six months.

Then I began to tear it up.

One piece, two pieces, three pieces. The report became countless tiny fragments in my hands, falling like snowflakes onto the dark table surface. With each piece I tore, a strange calm settled over me.

Mom's death anniversary, also my birthday. Twenty-four years ago, she died for me, and now I was going to join her.

Maybe this was the best arrangement. Maybe this was always how it was supposed to end.—to face death at twenty-four, to go to her.

Looking at the paper fragments scattered across the table, I suddenly remembered a story Mom supposedly told me when I was little, about a girl reuniting with her mother in heaven. Back then, I didn't understand the meaning of death; I just thought the story was beautiful.

Now I understood.

My phone screen lit up again with Kieran's call. This time I didn't answer, just watched his name flash on the screen, then fade to black.

The room fell silent again. I gathered the paper fragments from the table, dropping them one by one into the trash can, like burying some kind of hope, or perhaps some kind of fear.