Love in the Diary

The day I left, the magnolias outside the window were in full bloom. Felix Carter was probably taking pictures of Yolanda Morgan; after all, it was the third anniversary of their reunion. My mobile phone buzzed twice — a message from Yale Carter: [Mom, don't always use your illness as an excuse. I'm busy having a reunion dinner with classmates.] I stared at the words on the screen, my fingers too weak to move after a long time, and the stabbing pain in my stomach started again, like a dull knife slowly cutting through. I pulled out the diagnosis slip from under the pillow; the four black characters "Late-Stage Stomach Cancer" had been touched so many times they were wrinkled. The doctor said I had at most two months left, but I didn't tell anyone—not Felix Carter, Yale Carter, or Cindy Carter—they all seemed like they no longer needed me. I opened Cindy Carter's Moments. She and Yolanda Morgan were both wearing white dresses, with a caption: "Finally found someone who understands me; this is the mom I've always wanted." My tears hit the screen, blurring that glaring sentence. I thought of Cindy as a child, always clinging to me, saying Mom was the best person in the world. How did it come to this? My stomach hurt again. I curled up and dug around the nightstand for painkillers. Without any water, I swallowed the pill dry; it scraped painfully against my throat. I don't want to go back to that so-called home. That 300-square-meter villa has never held any warmth. Felix's study is always locked, where old photos of him and Yolanda are kept. Yale Carter's room is piled high with branded sneakers; he never lets me touch his things. Cindy Carter's dressing table is covered with luxury gifts from Yolanda Morgan, while my skincare products have to sit in the corner of the bathroom. I packed a small suitcase with just a few old clothes, a box of diaries, and five property deeds. The property deeds bear the names Felix Carter, Yale Carter, Cindy Carter, and my in-laws; I quietly bought them over the years with manuscript fees and part-time earnings. I rented a tiny twelve-square-meter room; the landlady, an elderly woman, noticed my pale face and kindly gave me an extra pot of Devil's Ivy. The little room is cramped, but there's a south-facing window, and when the sunlight comes in, it falls warmly on my quilt. I put the Devil's Ivy on the windowsill, watching its leaves slowly unfold, as if that could somehow bring a bit more life into my days. I write in my diary every day, not for anyone to read, just to capture the words I can't say out loud. [My stomach didn't hurt much today. I went downstairs and bought a bowl of noodles — they were really good. I felt genuinely happy.] [I saw Yale Carter post on social media that he got into graduate school. I wanted to congratulate him but was afraid he'd find me annoying.] [Cindy Carter showed off her new bag—it was a gift from Yolanda Morgan. When she was little, she wanted a doll, and I saved money for half a month just to buy it.] [I received the manuscript fee from the publisher today. It's not much, but enough to buy a month's supply of painkillers.] [My stomach has started bleeding. I don't dare go to the hospital—afraid of the expense and that no one will be there to sign the consent forms.]