Chapter 5 — Fake Perfect Family

I leaned away. “Come in.” She walked in and stood in the middle of the room, like she didn't know where to sit. Finally sat down on the edge of the bed. The spring made a sound. Silence for a long time. She spoke first. Her voice was so hoarse that it didn't sound like her. "I'm home. Go to dad's study room." She placed the kraft paper bag in her hand on her knee, her fingers still shaking. "That set of documents, the original. I've seen it." I leaned against the door frame, not moving. “Reason for keeping embryo number 71: as a backup source of organs for embryo number 97.” When she read that sentence, her voice broke a little. "I also read the notes on the last page. High scores mean rarer, rarer means weaker." She raised her head to look at me. "From the beginning, they knew I would have problems. That's why they kept me." I neither nodded nor shook my head. She suddenly stood up and took a step closer. "Your scar. Let me see it." I didn't move. “Let me see.” She said it again. There was something almost pleading in his voice. I lifted the edge of my T-shirt. That scar, from below the curved ribs to the back of the waist, was white and shiny, under the fluorescent light like a coiled worm. She stared for a few seconds. Then squat down and cover your face. Shoulders tremble. I dropped my shirt and took a step back. “What are you crying about?” The voice was colder than I imagined. "You are the one who has lived until now on my kidney. What right do you have to cry?" Her hand left her face. Tears blurred his face. “I don't know.” Her voice cracked. "I really don't know. They said it was a suitable transplant donation, I believed it. I never doubted it." “I don't want to get suspicious.” I said. “It's not the same.” She opened her mouth, but could not refute anything. The room was quiet for a long time. In the hallway, someone was going upstairs, the sound of footsteps getting farther and farther each floor. She stood up and gave that kraft paper bag to me. "The original. I got it from the library." I took it but didn't open it. She walked to the door, turned her head to look at me. “I will not take their side.” I leaned against the door frame, watching her back disappear around the corner of the stairs. Inexorable. Not relieved. Believe it or not, we'll see later. But right now, I just feel tired. Three days after she left, things began to deteriorate. First, the company's human resources department sought me out to talk. The middle-aged woman normally just nodded politely to me sitting in the meeting room, her expression extremely awkward. "Tieu Chau, someone reported to the company some situations, saying your mental state was not very stable. The company suggested you rest a few days ago." I looked at her. “Who reflects?” She avoided my eyes. “The other person said he was your family member.” I smiled. "My mental state is very good. If the company wants to fire me, please give me written notice." She was silenced by me, waved her hand and said we would discuss further. Returning to work, I immediately understood. Dad is using relationships. That afternoon, I received a “mental status evaluation request notice” from the psychology department of a frontline hospital. The doctor's last name was Trieu. I looked it up, I was a contemporary in the academic world with my father. The notice reads: Based on the family members' feedback, the litigant has a long-term tendency to paranoid being harmed, and it is recommended to quickly receive a professional assessment. Delusion of being harmed. I took a photo of that announcement and sent it to the reporter. Then I opened the phone and flipped to the bottom of the contacts list. That phone number has been saved for seven years but has never been called. The note reads: Auntie Lam. The phone rang three times and then answered the phone. The other end was quiet for a second, then there was a familiar voice, a little older than the memory. “Is it Tieu Chau?” I opened my mouth. My throat suddenly choked very hard. "Aunt Lam. It's me." She was silent for two seconds. Then the voice softened. "I saw the news. That child is you, right?" "Yes." “What can I help you with?” I took a deep breath. “Are you willing to testify?” She didn't hesitate. Not even a second. “I'll tell you what to do.” That evening, nurse Lam sent the reporter a video

autobiography. She told everything she saw with her own eyes: a little girl from the age of five started having health check-ups every quarter, always alone. At the age of fifteen, after surgery, there was no family member in the hospital room, but the sound of congratulatory laughter was heard in the sister's room next door. After work, she bought herself some strawberries to visit. At the end of the video, she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. "That child shouldn't have to be like that. Never should have been like that." Eleven o'clock that evening. The phone vibrated once. Message from sister. No extra words, just a photo and a sentence. The photo is the original cover of the embryo file, with her identification card underneath. The message read: "The original is with me. You can submit it at any time. I'm on your side." I stared at that text. Fingers stay on the screen for a long time. Finally answer in two words: Thank you. Then turn off the phone, lie in bed, look at the ceiling.