During the hardest, poorest year of my life, I intentionally crushed two of my fingers in a factory machine to pay for my grandmother's $30,000 surgery. The factory owner frowned, his face etched with genuine pain, and offered me $80,000 in compensation. Guilt-ridden, I only accepted the $30,000 I needed. Years passed. Grandma has long since left this world. Then I saw the news trending on X (Twitter). That factory had burned to the ground. The owner died of a "heart attack." His wife vanished without a trace. Their twelve-year-old son was sent to foster care. Looking at the helpless, terrified eyes on my screen, I poured the pills I was about to swallow down the drain. Fine... let's live one more time. For the sake of that thirty grand. 1 Even after all these years, whenever I look at my severed fingers, a wave of guilt washes over me. But if I went back, I know I'd do it again. Because back then, I truly had nowhere else to turn. Grandma found me by a dumpster in a snowstorm. If not for her, I would have frozen to death on that bitter night. She got stomach cancer. The doctor said surgery and follow-up treatment would cost at least $80,000. We sold everything—our dilapidated studio apartment, the worthless furniture—everything we had. It only amounted to $50,000. We were still short $30,000. "Don't treat it, Tara. I've lived long enough. I can't let you sleep on the streets for me," she said. I shook my head. "I'd rather sleep on the streets than live without you, Grandma. We... we have to treat it." Grandma held me in her arms, her sighs mixed with sobs. We cried together. It was a desperate, freezing night. We both knew that $30,000 was an astronomical figure for us. Where could we possibly scrape that together? Grandma had no family. She only had me. But I... I didn't have the money to save her. However, at nineteen, I had infinite guts and courage to face any difficulty! When I shoved my fingers into the rapidly spinning gears, the pain nearly made me black out. But in the panicked eyes of my coworkers, I saw hope. Grandma could be saved! It was the only door I could open for her. 2 The factory owner, Mr. Miller, was a good man. By the time he rushed to the hospital, my hand was already bandaged. He squatted down, wanting to touch my hand but looking helpless, not knowing where to start. Finally, all he could say was a heavy sigh full of heartache: "Child, you're so young. What will you do now...?" I turned my head away, not daring to meet his eyes. I wasn't a good kid. I didn't deserve his sincere pity. His wife, Mrs. Miller, came to take care of me personally. She handled everything. She gently combed my messy hair. She cut fruit into small pieces, warmed them up, and fed me bit by bit. It was the first time I felt that kind of delicate, maternal tenderness. It was completely different from how Grandma cared for me. A coworker who came to visit whispered a warning: "Be careful. This is a honey trap. They're being nice so they can pay you less later." I was instantly on guard. I tried to reject their kindness. But they continued to care for me, both physically and emotionally, ignoring my deliberate coldness. After I was discharged, Mr. and Mrs. Miller drove me home. Grandma held my hand, missing two fingers, and wept silently. For a long time, she couldn't say a word, her whole body trembling with sobs. In that moment, I started to regret using this method to get money. The Millers were wiping tears too. Our home was bare walls. Grandma looked jaundiced, clearly very ill. They took out $80,000 in cash and stacked it neatly on the table. Grandma stood up in a panic, waving her hands, terrified and unsure of what to say. She could only look at me in silent distress. "This is the factory's compensation for Tara. Please take it. The factory will cover future medical bills too," Mr. Miller said. I lowered my head in shame. This compensation far exceeded my expectations. I had consulted a lawyer, and the amount he quoted was far less than what Mr. Miller offered. And this was just a small factory. The kind where the boss had to go out and make sales calls himself every day. Every penny was hard-earned. I needed money, but... I couldn't be conscienceless enough to take the extra. Even though I wasn't sure if the current me had a conscience left. "It's too much. I can't take this much." Mrs. Miller patted my head and said softly, "Child, don't be shy. The road ahead is long. Take this money and learn a trade to support yourself." I looked down, unable to wipe away my tears or speak, just stubbornly shaking my head. I only took $30,000. I resolutely pushed the rest back to them. Grandma looked at the $30,000 I kept in shock. Thirty! It was thirty thousand! A number so painfully familiar to her. The old lady looked confused, shocked, and then... a flash of heartbroken realization crossed her eyes. No one else knew why Grandma suddenly burst into loud wails. Only I kept my head down, afraid to look into their eyes. I was afraid to see my own despicable, shameful, ugly reflection in their pupils. In the end, the Millers couldn't beat my stubbornness. I practically kicked them out with a cold face. I threw the $50,000 back at them. I knew I was being rude, but I really didn't know how else to refuse such warm kindness. Grandma cried all night. No one was sadder than her. I just regretted not hiding my intentions better; Grandma figured it out instantly. The next day, we packed up and moved out of that dilapidated apartment and into the hospital. We said goodbye to that home forever. My only home with Grandma. I had no home left, but I still had Grandma. With Grandma, I still had a home. 3 Grandma's surgery went smoothly. But after being discharged, we had nowhere to go. We set up a tent under a bridge. Renting an apartment or staying in a motel cost too much. Every penny had to be spent wisely. I had no idea how much follow-up treatment would cost. I could only cut expenses as much as possible. Many times, I regretted not taking that $50,000. But I knew clearly that if I went back in time, I still wouldn't take it. If I took it, the weight on my spine would keep me bent forever. After two rounds of chemo, Grandma's body clearly couldn't take the drafty bridge anymore. We moved into a cheap basement room in an alley. Winter arrived. It was freezing. I found a job delivering food via DoorDash. I took care of Grandma while working like a tireless machine. In between, I picked up odd jobs at nightclubs—promoting drinks, being an atmosphere girl. I tried everything. As long as it paid. That was the closest I ever came to falling into the abyss. I saw countless ways to make quick, dirty money. Reason pulled me back in the end. If I truly fell, Grandma would rather die than accept treatment bought with that money. The Millers visited us once during that time. I didn't even know how he went to the trouble of finding our address. He said, "Tara, actually, you can come back to work at the factory. We'll move you to an easier position." My nails dug deep into my palms. Stubborn and hostile, I said, "Easier positions definitely don't pay well. Are you going to charitably inflate my wages?" He nodded without hesitation. I didn't appreciate it. "But I don't need it. Are you pitying us? I can take care of Grandma just fine on my own." The couple opened and closed their mouths, looking heartbroken, but said nothing more. Grandma seemed afraid of something, clumsily waving her hands to refuse: "Our Tara isn't going back to work. Thank you, really, thank you." She rubbed my frostbitten, stubby fingers, terror in her eyes. The Millers left with heavy sighs, looking back three times with every step. I whispered at their backs, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." Forgive my rudeness, forgive my ugly, dark heart. All my strong disguises were supported by despicableness. I wasn't a good person. At least, I didn't feel like one then. Grandma cried too. "Grandma is dragging you down, Tara. I'm an old useless thing, how can I burden a child like this?" I turned around fearfully and hugged her tight. "Don't say that! I only have you, Grandma. You get better, and we will be okay. We will get better." But would we? Looking at Grandma's sallow face, a seed of helpless despair was planted in my heart. Grandma didn't speak. The tears soaking my sleeve silently told a story. Drop after drop, endless tears. She suffered too much. How could I let her leave without enjoying a single day of happiness? Absolutely not. But that night, a plastic bag inexplicably appeared at our door. On top were two cans of nutritional milk powder for seniors. Underneath was a neat stack of $50,000. Fifty. Another sensitive number. I knew who it was immediately. I called Mr. Miller, but no one answered. Grandma touched my rough, frozen hands. "Tara, stop calling. Take it. Later... we'll find a way to pay them back." I stared at Grandma. Her cloudy eyes were filled with heartbreaking pain. I nodded, turning my head to let the tears flow into the shadows. That was the last bit of endurance and stubbornness of my youth. 4 That winter was the fullest and most exhausting year of my life. Delivering food by day, working at the club by night. I was so tired I could fall asleep sitting anywhere. It was exhausting, but the decent monthly income still left me worried sick. Grandma's chemo every three weeks. Medical bills, nutrition costs—these were expenses I couldn't skimp on. The doctor said if she ate well and kept her nutrition up, the side effects would be less severe. During that time, every extra bite of rice or sip of soup Grandma took made me happy for a long time. As if she wasn't eating food, but life points. Four rounds of chemo ended. Time for a routine checkup. I was on a delivery run when the oncologist called. "Your grandmother's response to chemo isn't good. The scans show the tumor... has metastasized to the liver and lungs." Crowds streamed past me. I squatted on the street corner and wailed helplessly. Why? Why did I try so hard only to face this result? Could the god of luck not spare a single glance for us? I got off work early that day. I secretly went to see the doctor first. The follow-up treatment plan was just heavy sighs of unbearable helplessness. The doctor was a young man. He said, "Take Grandma home, Tara. Don't spend any more money in the hospital. Let her eat whatever she wants." I knew he meant well, but I didn't want to hear a word of it. It felt like the Grim Reaper reading a death sentence. I couldn't accept it. I still believed in miracles. "If we just go home like this, what will happen to Grandma?" "It will be very painful. She might get fevers, lose mobility, lose appetite, or develop ascites," the doctor's voice got quieter. He didn't want to look me in the eye anymore, looking down at his screen pretending to be busy. "What if I insist on treatment?" I wasn't giving up. The doctor looked up at me steadily, lowering his voice. "Even if you insist... your grandmother will still go through all of that." Hearing this, my tears burst forth uncontrollably. I tried to dry my eyes in the stairwell before seeing Grandma, but my small eyes couldn't hold that many tears. I wiped for half an hour, and they still wouldn't stop. A middle-aged man smoking nearby looked equally worried. Seeing me cry, he numbly handed me a crumpled tissue. "Eyes hurt if you cry too long. Wipe them." His exhaustion made me wonder if he also had family in treatment. Everyone suffers. Each has their own suffering. So... let's try to make the last leg of Grandma's journey a little sweeter. Maybe because I came back early today, I saw Mrs. Miller. A thermos was on Grandma's bedside table. I walked in, and the room smelled of chicken soup. A very familiar smell. I said thickly through my congestion, "Thank you, Mrs. Miller. You don't need to come tomorrow. Thank you for visiting Grandma all this time." This time, it was sincere gratitude. I wasn't an idiot. I should have known those exquisite, delicious meals weren't takeout. Takeout wouldn't make Grandma dodge my eyes. Takeout didn't come in high-end thermal lunch boxes.
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