Chapter 1 — Fake Perfect Family

My parents both have PhDs in genetics. Marry not because of love, but because of complementary genes, to maximize the probability of giving birth to excellent offspring. During in vitro fertilization, they took twelve embryos and scored them, keeping two embryos. During in vitro fertilization, they took twelve embryos and scored them, keeping two embryos. The embryo with 97 points is my sister. The embryo that scored 71 points was me. I shouldn't have been born. The document clearly states: "Reason for retaining embryo No. 71: as a backup source of organs for embryo No. 97." Their colleagues knew about it and tried to advise them. They said that can't be done, children are not consumables. My mother was very calm: "Just because it is my biological child, I can guarantee a 100% match rate. Using someone else is not scientific." My sister learned piano, horseback riding, swimming and won a gold medal at the city level. I'm not allowed to touch anything. Not because they loved me, but because they were afraid that my internal organs would be damaged. For my sister's birthday, the whole family went abroad. I stayed home to check my health. She attended summer camp, and I was on time to get my blood tested. At the age of fifteen, my sister was diagnosed with kidney disease. The day the matching results were announced, the whole family looked at me and laughed. “It was the correct decision to keep her at first.” I donated a kidney. The surgery was very successful. After that everything remained the same. She is still 97 points. I'm still the backup. Just lost a kidney. But the sister who scored 97 points has been sick since childhood, and I, who scored 71 points, have no illness at all. My parents never discussed this. Last month, I turned the last page of that embryo file. On it are written the actual scoring rules. This morning, a reporter contacted me, saying he wanted to interview about "the perfect family of a genetics doctorate couple". I answered in three words: Can talk. … Actually, from a very young age, I knew I was not like other people. In the summer when I was five years old, the children in the neighborhood chased each other around the water fountain square. I looked for a long time, then finally secretly ran after him. Not even two laps into the run, before my knees had warmed up, my mother's hand held my shoulder tightly. She didn't scold me. Not even a word was said. She directly put me in the car and drove to the hospital. Register for an examination, blood draw, ultrasound, urine test. Throughout the entire process, she just stared at the test form. The results came out and the index was normal. She breathed a sigh of relief and called her father: "It's okay, the organ's condition is not affected. In the future, we must limit its range of activities more." After that day, my time outside of school only had two things left: staying home and going to the hospital. For her seventh birthday, the whole family flew to Paris. I was left at home, waiting for the nurse to come to my house to take blood. On the living room tea table, there is a photo of her birthday. Pink dress, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, dad carrying her on his shoulders. When the nurse inserted the needle, I stared at that photo, my arm not moving at all. She praised me for being good. Actually, it's not because it doesn't hurt. But because that photo hurts a lot more than a needle. Nurse Lam at the health check-up center was the only adult who treated me well. Every time before taking blood, she took out a Dai Bach Rabbit milk candy from her pocket and bent down to stuff it for me. “Come on, suck it and it won't hurt anymore.” One time, after taking four tubes of blood, she helped me press the cotton ball and suddenly asked: "Why don't your parents ever go with you?" I lowered my head to look at the needle mark in my elbow, my mouth opened but I couldn't say anything. She sighed, folded the candy wrapper into a small rabbit and placed it in my palm. “It's okay, I'm with you.” In the fall of her fifteenth year, my sister was diagnosed with stage three kidney disease. The day the match report was sent home, my parents sat across from me at the dining table, with an expression on their faces that I had never seen before. It's laughter. Not a gentle smile. It's the look of satisfaction after a certain hypothesis has been confirmed. Mom quickly closed the report and breathed a sigh of relief: "It was correct to keep it at first." Only dad came to the pre-surgery discussion. He talked to me throughout the process

Doctor, don't look at me once. Finally, just say one sentence: "Laparoscopic surgery, control the incision within six centimeters. It will still be of use in the future, do not affect the evaluation of other organs." The doctor's pen stopped. His lips moved, but in the end he still said nothing. The surgery was very successful. When I woke up, there was only white fluorescent light on the ceiling in the hospital room. The bedside table is empty. No flowers, no cards, no one. The next room heard laughter. My sister's voice, my mother's voice, and the sound of balloons being broken. From the crack in the door below came a small patch of warm yellow light. That light doesn't reach my bed. Just after nine o'clock in the evening, the door was gently pushed open. Nurse Lam is wearing everyday clothes, holding a box of strawberries in her hand. She's already finished her shift. She sat next to my bed, looked at me for a long time, her eyes gradually turning red. “This child.” Her voice was very quiet. “You shouldn't be like this.” I want to say okay. As soon as he opened his mouth, tears fell first. After donating a kidney, life does not change at all. That's not right, there are still a few changes. Health checkup from once a quarter to once a month. The category from basic kidney function expands to full organ assessment. In my father's computer, there is an additional chart, the file name is: "Number 71 - monitoring the condition of usable organs". One time I passed by the study room, the screen was not turned off. I see the liver section is highlighted in blue, the note reads: “Priority A.” She recovered very quickly. That winter, he flew to Singapore to attend an academic winter camp. I lost a kidney, got another scar, and continued to sit in the hallway of the health check-up center every month waiting for test results. In tenth grade, the physical fitness test included an eight hundred meter run. I didn't think much, just ran along. The wind filled my lungs, the soles of my feet felt like they were stepping on springs, and my heartbeat echoed in my ears. When running across the finish line, the gym teacher held the stopwatch and stood there stunned. "Two minutes and twenty-one seconds? Have you practiced before?" Top of the whole block. I was also stunned. That very day, the gym teacher called home and said he wanted me to join the school's track and field team. Dad hung up the phone and looked at me. The expression didn't look like anger, more like looking at a device operating beyond its parameters. “I only have one kidney left.” “The doctor said that daily exercise is not okay…” “Daily exercise and competition training are two different things.” He interrupted me. “Your mission is to maintain the stability of your organs, not to consume them.” I clenched my uniform sleeve, my fingernails digging into my palms. “So what is your mission?” He did not answer. He turned around and went into the study room, closing the door. On my sixteenth birthday, she was in the Maldives. Mom's personal page is full of photos of her scuba diving, with the words: "Happy birthday to my treasure, the future is bright." That same day, I was at the hospital for my annual full-body health check-up. In the morning, six tubes of blood were taken, and in the afternoon, a CT scan of the abdomen was taken. While waiting for the results, nurse Lam suddenly appeared at the end of the hallway. In her hand she held a small cupcake the size of her palm, with a thin candle crookedly placed on top. “I turned over your medical records.” She laughed, squatting in front of me. “Today is your birthday, right?” I nodded. Throat tight. She took out a lighter from her pocket and lit the candle. The wind in the hallway blew the flames sideways. “Make a wish.” I closed my eyes. There is only one wish. Don't open me up again. Candle goes out. I opened my eyes, she was smiling, but her eyes were red. Three months later, nurse Lam moved to a hospital elsewhere. Before leaving, the last time she took my blood, she stuffed a piece of paper into my palm and gently held my finger. "On there is my phone number. If one day you need help, call." I folded the paper into a very small square and stuck it on the last page of the textbook. I still don't throw that book away. The day the college entrance exam ended, I filled in my application to a university one thousand eight miles away from home

hundred kilometers. Don't discuss with anyone. The day the admission notice arrived at home, her mother was helping her pack her suitcase to exchange abroad. She glanced at the envelope in my hand, without raising her head. "Don't go too far. In the second half of the year, your sister will have to be re-examined." I didn't reply. During my four years in college, I worked both the night shift at a convenience store and a weekend tutoring job. I have never been home. Never asked for a single penny. After graduating, I rented a room of fifteen square meters and worked as an administrator at a small company. Salary four thousand three, after paying the rent, there is more than two thousand left over. Not much. But every penny was earned by me. I thought I was finally out. Until three months ago. A registered letter was quietly slipped through the crack in the motel room door. Opened was the hospital's transplant re-inspection notice. The sender wrote my father's name. Inside was a piece of paper, his handwriting was neat and tidy: "Your sister's liver index is abnormal, you need to evaluate your liver condition. Come back next Tuesday." I stared at that line, my fingers tightening little by little. The paper was grabbed until it was wrinkled. Not fear. But suddenly I understood something. No matter how far I run, in their eyes, I will always be number 71. Forever a backup. It's forever a warehouse of parts that haven't been completely dismantled. I'm not coming back. The registered letter was stuffed into the deepest part of the drawer, the paper was crumpled into balls and thrown into the trash. But I went to the hospital myself. Don't listen to them. It's that I need to know how long my body can last. The registration line took two hours. When the blood test report came back, the doctor took off his glasses and looked at me. “Your creatinine level… you only have one kidney left?” "Yes." “When to cut?” “Fifteen years old.” He was silent for a few seconds, put his glasses back on and stared at the screen. “Have you been doing heavy work these past few years?” “Almost the same.” He turned the report towards me, his finger pointing to a number. "This kidney of yours has reached its limit of compensation. Simply put, it is working on behalf of two kidneys and is about to not be able to support it anymore." I stared at that number, my chest felt heavy as if someone had punched me hard. “What if… I have another organ removal surgery?” The way he looked at me changed. “Are you serious?” I said nothing. He put down his pen, his tone no longer polite. "If you take anything else, your survival rate is less than fifty percent. Less than half. Do you understand?" Leaving the clinic, the white hallway light was blinding. The crowd flowed to both sides, I stood in the middle, like a stone in a river that no one noticed. Suddenly it feels wild. They let me live so I can remove parts at any time. But I risked my life, but my body was about to fall apart.