My Cancer Diagnosis Ended Their Ten-Year Test

When I am ten, Dad is diagnosed with uremia. To pay for his treatment, my family sell our house and rack up millions in debt. At 13, I drop out of school to work. I haul bricks at construction sites during the day, unload cargo at the docks at night, and wash dishes at a restaurant in the early hours of the morning. When I have a fever, I can't afford medicine. Even when I cough up blood, I can only wipe it away in secret. Every month, as long as I get my wages, I transfer every last cent to Dad. At 20, I am diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer. The doctor says I have at most a month to live. But when I think of how Dad still needs dialysis next week, I tear up my hospital admission form and take a job hauling liquor bottles at a hotel. But as I walk past a private room on the top floor, I see Dad, who's supposed to be bedridden, dressed in a suit, looking hale and hearty. Everyone around him addresses him with deference as the chairman. I stand frozen outside the door, clutching the crates. My mind goes blank. Someone in the private room laughs and asks, "You've been faking your illness for ten years. Aren't you afraid you'll drive your son to his death?" Dad casually swirls his wineglass and answers, "This is all part of testing my heir. It's the only way to see what kind of person he really is." Mom smiles. "He didn't even go to university because he wanted to pay for your treatment. All these years, he hasn't spent a single penny on himself. He's proven himself to be loyal and devoted to his family. He deserves to inherit the family business." Dad nods in satisfaction. "We'll tell him the truth on his birthday next month. He'll be ecstatic to know he's the heir to Emerson Group." I stare at my diagnosis. I'm afraid I won't be ecstatic. Next month is my 20th birthday, and according to my doctor, it's also my last day alive. Chapter 1 Rowan's POV The private room door suddenly swung open from the inside. I had no time to move. My father, Zander Emerson, walked out of the room, surrounded by a crowd. He was impeccably dressed in a suit and stood tall and straight. He looked nothing like someone who had been sick for the past ten years. I clutched the crate of liquor so tightly that my fingernails nearly dug through the cardboard. In front of me, he had always worn a faded hospital gown. He would gasp for air and clutch his lower back after taking just a few steps. But now, his complexion was rosy, and his laughter was loud and hearty. The hotel manager bent forward to hold the elevator for Dad. "Mr. Emerson, your car is ready." Suddenly, I felt a sharp, suffocating pain in my chest. I covered my mouth, but blood seeped through the gaps between my fingers, dripping onto the expensive carpet. My supervisor rushed over and kicked me in the back of the knee. "Are you fucking insane? Do you have any idea how much this carpet costs.?" I stumbled and fell to my knees, the crate of liquor crashing to the floor. Glass shattered, and liquor spilled everywhere. My supervisor grabbed me by the collar and yelled, "You couldn't possibly pay for all this liquor!" Dad finally stopped walking. I instinctively lowered my head, hiding my blood-stained hands behind my back. Deep down, a small part of me still hoped he would recognize me, even if all he did was say my name. However, he merely frowned at the blood on the floor. "This is Emerson Group's private gathering. Don't let people like that stay here. They're an eyesore." My supervisor immediately nodded. "Don't worry, sir. I'll handle it right away." The security guards dragged me toward the back exit. My palms scraped against the floor, and shards of broken glass sliced them open, leaving bloody gashes. Even when the elevator doors closed, he still hadn't recognized me. My supervisor withheld all my wages for the night and forced me to sign an IOU for three thousand dollars. I leaned against the wall and slowly made my way back to the basement. When I plugged in my phone and turned it on, a voice message from Dad came through. "Rowan, I have dialysis again tomorrow. The hospital suddenly raised its prices again. I'm still short by 800 dollars. If you really don't have the money, that's fine. Skipping one session won't kill me." After that, he forced out two coughs. In the past, whenever I heard him cough, I'd worry so much I couldn't sleep at night. But now, all I could think about was how convincing his acting was. My bank account had exactly one thousand dollars. It was the deposit I had set aside for my own hospital stay. My phone chimed again. Dad sent me a photo. There was medical tape stuck to the back of his hand, and there was a forged dialysis form beside him. The message read, "Rowan, don't worry about me. I'll get through this somehow." I stared at that healthy hand and suddenly laughed. Just moments ago, he had used it to hold his wineglass in that private room. The watch on his wrist was worth enough to pay for dozens of my chemotherapy sessions. I transferred 800 dollars to him. This wasn't for his dialysis. It was for the years I had lost taking care of him. I whispered, "Consider this repayment for the life you gave me." I had just put down my phone when my mother, Morgana Sanders, called. "Rowan, didn't you have one thousand dollars in your account? Why did you only transfer 800 dollars?" So, they even knew how much money I had. I sat down against the edge of the bed. I said, "Mom, I have cancer" There was silence on the other end. Then, Mom asked, "What?" "I have late-stage lung cancer. The doctor said I might not live to see next month." I clenched the diagnosis report, waiting for her to ask where I was. Yet, she just sneered, "Rowan, you're only 20! If you're going to lie, at least come up with something believable! Your father has been sick for ten years and never once complained. You've only been working for a few years, and now you're telling me you have lung cancer? "Are you making it up just because you don't want to give up the remaining cash? Transfer the last 200 dollars right now. Are we clear?" I deleted the photo of the diagnosis from my phone. I murmured, "Crystal. Just keep believing I'm making it up." The line went dead. I collapsed against the side of the bed, coughing up blood until it quickly soaked half my shirt. … Third-Person POV Meanwhile, Morgana told Zander what Rowan Emerson had said. She asked, "Rowan really has been coughing a lot lately. Should we get someone to check on him?" Zander stared at the transfer notification, his expression turning grim. "He never used to keep a single penny for himself. Now he's not only hiding money from us, but also using a cancer diagnosis to test us. Looks like his devotion to us isn't as genuine as we thought." He called his assistant, Ezra Williams. "Prepare a guarantee agreement for 100 thousand dollars. Then tell Rowan that my kidney transplant failed. If he doesn't sign it, the hospital will stop giving me my medication." He added coldly, "This is the final test. Let's see who he'll choose when my life is on the line. Himself, or me." Chapter 2 Rowan's POV Early the next morning, Mom called again. She was sobbing uncontrollably, "Rowan, your father's kidney transplant failed! He survived, but we still need 100 thousand dollars for treatment. If we don't pay today, the hospital will stop his medication." She sent me a guarantee agreement. A lending company was willing to cover the medical expenses upfront, but an immediate family member had to sign it to repay the debt. I gave the document a quick glance. The official seal was fake, and even the hospital's name had a typo. Yesterday, my great chairman of a father had been drinking at a hotel. Yet, today, he was supposedly in the ICU. They couldn't even be bothered to make their story believable. I asked, "And what if I don't sign it?" Mom's sobbing suddenly stopped. "Your father will die! Rowan, he's your own flesh and blood!" I looked down at the bloodstained tissue beside the bed. "I told you yesterday. I'm also dying soon." Her voice instantly turned cold as she asked, "Why are you still keeping up that act? Your father's in the ICU, and all you can think about is yourself! Even when our family was struggling the most, you never backed down. But now, you're showing your true colors because you refuse to sign a document?" So, that was how they saw me. It wasn't that I couldn't get sick. I just wasn't allowed to die before Dad did. I didn't argue anymore. I simply asked, "Where should I sign the agreement?" "Just stay put at home." Less than half an hour later, the door was kicked open. Several men stormed into the basement and splashed red paint all over the walls. "Your own father is in the hospital, waiting for money to save his life, and you are trying to hide?" The commotion attracted many neighbors. The man in charge grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to the doorway. "Everyone, take a look at this! His own father is dying, but he's faking cancer to deceive his own mother!" Everyone looked at me in disgust and contempt. "What's the point of raising a heartless ingrate like him?" The man picked up a cup and smashed it against my face. The rim grazed my forehead, and blood trickled down my eyelid. He threw the agreement onto the floor. "Get on your knees and sign it!" I bent down to pick it up when someone kicked me in the lower back. I went sprawling into the red paint. Laughter erupted all around me. "Thought you were such a devoted son? Come on! Show your father some respect!" The man grabbed me by the hair and slapped me twice. … Third-Person POV Meanwhile, inside the black sedan parked at the alley entrance, Morgana stared at the footage from the hidden camera. "I only asked them to have him sign it. Why are they beating him?" Zander remained calm. "If we don't push him to the brink, we won't know what he really chooses. They're all people I hired. They know what they're doing." … Rowan's POV Inside my home, my pill bottle rolled to a stop at the man's feet. He crushed it under his shoe. The white pills were crushed into powder, mixing with the red paint. "You've got money for medicine, but not to save your own father?" I lunged forward to pick them up. He planted his foot on my hand and ground his shoe back and forth. "Want these? Beg me." It felt as though my bones were being crushed. I lowered my head and begged, "Please, give them back to me." The man laughed, "Crawl over and pick them up." I knelt on the ground, picking up the pills one by one, even though they were no longer safe to take. Someone pointed a phone at my face. "Say it! Say you're a bastard who won't even save his own father!" I said nothing. The man kicked me in the chest. My back slammed against the wall, and blood poured from my mouth and nose. The man stumbled backward in fear. "Sir, he's coughing up blood!" … Third-Person POV Morgana yanked open the car door. "Don't hit him anymore!" But Zander grabbed her by the arm. "He said he had cancer yesterday, and now he's coughing up blood? What are the odds? It's a ruse. Keep going." The man grabbed my hair again and forced my face down onto the agreement. "I'm asking you one last time. Are you signing it or not?" Red paint and blood stained the paper. I picked up the pen and wrote on the back of the agreement. "From age 13 to 20, I earned a total of 187 thousand dollars working and gave every last cent to my parents. Today, I will also cover my father's medical expenses. With this, I have repaid the debt of being born and raised. Once I die, there is no need to notify my family." Then, I signed my name on the front of the agreement. The men soon left with the agreement. … Third-Person POV When Morgana saw the signature, she finally sighed in relief. "I knew Rowan wouldn't abandon his father." But the next second, Rowan left the family group chat and blocked everyone. Zander's expression darkened. "He's still throwing a tantrum even after signing the agreement. He's just trying to make us cave first. Let him reflect on his behavior." … Rowan's POV I swept the broken pills into the trash can, then dragged my suitcase out of the basement. With the little money I had left, I checked into a hospice funded by a charity. The doctor on duty finished reviewing my medical records, his frown growing with every page. "Your condition is so serious, and your parents have no idea?" I shook my head. "They are very busy." "What could possibly be more important than your life?" I recalled what Dad had said in the private room. He would tell me the truth on my 20th birthday. I answered, "They're busy preparing my birthday celebration." The doctor froze. "All the more reason to let them know. They should come and spend time with you." I refused, "No need for that. They've been waiting for this day for ten years. Don't spoil their fun." … Third-Person POV Meanwhile, Zander sent birthday invitations to every relative and close friend of the Emerson family. He planned to announce that Rowan had passed the test to become his heir. But little did he know that Rowan wouldn't live to see that day. Chapter 3 Rowan's POV On the third day after checking into the hospice, I began sorting through my belongings. Calling them belongings was an exaggeration, though. There wasn't much to sort through. I had spent seven years working, but I had never even bought myself a single decent thing. My nurse, Sophia Langford, brought me three metal boxes. The first was filled with years' worth of pay slips and bank transfer records. At 13, I had washed dishes at a restaurant, earning 230 dollars a month. At 14, I had hauled bricks during the day and unloaded trucks at night. That was the first time I had managed to scrape together enough money for Dad's dialysis. At 15, I had worked until I developed gastric bleeding. When I woke up, the first thing I asked was whether my absence that day would count as skipping work. I had given my parents a total of 187 thousand dollars. Every last cent went to them. The second box contained Dad's dialysis bills, surgical records, and debt agreements from all those years. Every last one of them was fake. I placed my own lung cancer diagnosis on top. Among all those forged medical records, it was the only one that was real. The third box held the gifts I had prepared for my parents. For Dad, it was a digital watch that cost six dollars. He used to complain that there was no clock in the dialysis room, so he never knew how much longer he had to endure each session. For Mom, it was a discounted scarf. She had lied to me, saying she swept the streets before dawn and that the winter cold left her hands too stiff to straighten them. Sophia's eyes filled with tears as she asked, "They lied to you. Why are you still keeping all this?" I touched the scarf. "The gifts are real. So is my wish for them to have a better life." The night before my birthday, I coughed up a large amount of blood. My blood oxygen levels kept dropping, and the doctor rushed me into the emergency room. … Third-Person POV Sophia found Zander's number in my bank transfer records and called him over a dozen times. At that moment, he was in the company's conference room, making arrangements for the heir's banquet the next day. When the call finally connected, Sophia said urgently, "Is this Rowan Emerson's father? He's being resuscitated right now. We need a family member to come to the hospital and sign the consent forms!" Zander was silent for two seconds. Then, he asked, "Are you an actress he hired?" Sophia froze. "This is a hospital! He has late-stage lung cancer, and he's in critical condition!" However, Zander cut her off. "Tell him there's a limit to how far he can take this fake illness. For just two hundred dollars, he's gone from pretending to have cancer to faking a medical emergency. He's quite the actor. Tell him to show up at his birthday banquet and apologize by noon tomorrow. Or else, he is no longer a part of the Emerson family." Then, the call was disconnected. … Rowan's POV I could faintly hear Dad's voice. With great difficulty, I pulled off my oxygen mask and asked, "What did he say?" Sophia's eyes welled up with tears, but she didn't answer. Yet, I still laughed, "Did he tell me to stop my act?" When I briefly regained consciousness, I handed her the three metal boxes. "If I don't wake up tomorrow, could you please deliver these to this address at noon?" It was the hotel where Dad had arranged my birthday banquet. Then I signed the organ donation form. By the time my pen reached the final stroke of my name, I had no strength left. Sophia steadied my hand, her tears falling onto the paper. I looked at my signature and whispered, "Maybe it's for the best. I never left them anything while I was alive. At least in death, I can still leave something behind for someone else." … Third-Person POV On Rowan's birthday, the Emerson family had booked out the most luxurious hotel in the city. At the center of the banquet hall lay the keys to a luxury car, the property deed to a villa, and a share transfer agreement for Emerson Group. Across the giant screen, the words read, "Welcome home, the sole heir to the Emerson Group!" At exactly noon, Zander walked onto the stage with a wine glass in hand. "To raise Rowan, I kept our family's wealth a secret and let him grow up in poverty. The facts have proved that my approach was correct. He's loyal, hardworking, and responsible. He's my proudest achievement." Applause filled the hall. Yet, Morgana kept glancing toward the entrance. By 12:30 pm, Rowan still hadn't shown up. She asked anxiously, "Could something have happened to Rowan?" Zander's expression hardened. "He just wants us to worry. Once he finds out all of this belongs to him, he'll come running faster than anyone." Just then, the banquet hall doors swung open. Sophia walked in, carrying three metal boxes. "Who is Rowan Emerson's family?"