The Final Chapter

The grain of the mahogany round table resembled ancient bark, polished bright by the wear of years. When the lazy susan spun, it emitted a faint 'creak,' like a swirling vortex threatening to pull everyone around the table into its depths. My hand holding the chopsticks trembled slightly, my knuckles blanching. The tip of the chopsticks was stained with a drop of broth, which fell onto the off-white tablecloth, spreading a pale yellow stain. Today was Dylan Scott's birthday; on the crystal cake, the candles shaped as "45" flickered gently, casting a dance of light and shadow across the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. It was also the third day since I received the diagnosis certificate; that thin sheet pressed in my pocket like a shard of ice. "Mom, look how kind Dad is to Younger Aunt." My daughter Mia suddenly spoke, a trace of cream still at the corner of her mouth, like a little kitten caught stealing a treat. She held up her fork, spearing a piece of unfinished cake. "Might as well let Dad marry the Younger Aunt, then you won't have to cook every day." The air instantly froze. The fish on the table was still steaming; the vapor condensed into tiny droplets in the cold air, hanging from the chandelier. I looked up at Dylan Scott. He was using a silver pair of communal chopsticks to pick shrimp for my sister, Mindy Lynn. The shells were peeled cleanly away, revealing tender, white flesh. Hearing this, he only smiled, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but said nothing. "What do children understand?" Mindy Lynn coquettishly murmured, her voice dripping like honey. She raised her hand to tuck the curls behind her ear, but her eyes flicked toward Dylan Scott, her lashes fluttering, "Mr. Dylan is kind to me because he pities that I'm still unmarried." "Mindy still knows best." Mother-in-law tapped the table; her silver bracelet struck the rosewood with a sharp "clang clang." She cast me a glance, her eyes as cold as ice, "Unlike some who spend all day wrapped up in company matters, caring nothing for family affairs." I clenched the diagnosis certificate tightly in my pocket. The words "advanced stomach cancer" seared like a branding iron, burning pain into my chest. The fabric in my pocket creased from my grip, while the edges of the diagnosis certificate dug into my palm, numbing it. "The company isn't busy—are you all living on thin air?" I whispered, my voice slightly unsteady. Dylan Scott set down his chopsticks; the porcelain ones clinked crisply against the bone plate. "Sunny, why are you speaking like that?" He knitted his brows. "Mom only wants what's best for you." "What's best for me?" I laughed, a sudden turmoil churning in my stomach, acid rising like a tide. I swallowed hard, looking at him, "If it's for my own good, should you be exchanging glances with me and my sister?" "Sunny Lynn, what madness has possessed you!" Dylan Scott stood up abruptly, the chair legs scraping the floor with a harsh screech. "Today is my birthday; are you deliberately making a scene?" Mindy Lynn grabbed his arm, her nails painted a dazzling pink glitter, rubbing against Dylan Scott's white shirt like a glaring smear of blood. "Dylan, don't be angry. My sister might just be too exhausted." Her voice was soft, yet her hand deliberately slid onto Dylan's wrist. I watched them and suddenly felt utterly drained. So drained, as if burdened by a great stone on my back, pressing so heavily I could barely breathe. "I'm feeling a bit unwell; I'll go back to my room first." When I stood, the chair creaked once more. Behind me came my mother-in-law's murmurs, like the buzz of a mosquito, each word piercing my heart. "Stop pretending; it's clearly jealousy of Mindy." The moment I closed the door, tears finally fell. It shattered on the wooden floor, spreading a small patch of dampness. The phone vibrated in my pocket, buzzing like a trapped insect. I pulled it out to see a payment reminder from the Hospital, the numbers followed by a glaring symbol. I took out the diagnosis certificate, the paper already crumpled from being clenched. My fingertips traced the words 'three months survival'; the paper's edge was rough, scraping my skin. So, even heaven thinks I've lived too long.