The Dollar My Brother Donated Novel – It’s been three years since my rich older brother, Harrison Sterling, blocked me. He donated one dollar to my campaign on GoFundMe, leaving a mocking comment: [If you’re really dying, let me know, I’ll celebrate.] Three years ago, the underprivileged student he was sponsoring accused me of stealing her college admission spot.
Harrison was furious, and he immediately had me expelled from school. “Even if you drop out, I’ll still support you, but if you take something from someone else, you need to face the consequences!” We had a huge argument, and in the end, he coldly kicked me out of the house. “Come back when you’ve learned your lesson. I refuse to let you stay this spoiled.” Since then, he’s treated that poor student like a princess. Meanwhile, I ended up scavenging for a living, and by the second year of being away from home, I was diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer. Staring at his comment, I stood frozen for a long while.
Then I called the cemetery agent, “I’ll take the cheapest plot. I’ll transfer the deposit tomorrow.” The one dollar Harrison donated was just enough to meet the withdrawal limit. I would fulfill his wish. … “Young lady, you’d better hurry up. You know how in-demand burial plots are these days,” the agent sighed over the phone, making it clear that nothing was reserved until payment was confirmed. I understood him. In the past year, I had visited the cemetery multiple times, but I hadn’t committed because they were too expensive. The little money I had was spent on medicine and treatment, and now almost nothing remained.
All I could do was return every now and then, hoping to find something affordable that others had overlooked. Every time the agent asked which plot I wanted, I awkwardly said, “Forget it, I’ll bring my family next time to see.” But this time, I spoke firmly, “Don’t worry, this time, I’m really going to buy.” After hanging up the phone, my screen returned to the GoFundMe page. Among all the comments wishing me a speedy recovery, Harrison’s stood out: [If you’re really dying, let me know, I’ll celebrate.] I read it over and over, still unable to believe that my own brother could say such a thing.
But because of the one dollar he donated, I had just enough funds in my account to withdraw the full amount. I bitterly pursed my lips, about to click “apply” for the withdrawal. Suddenly, I scrolled down and saw the latest donation and message. It was from the poor student Harrison sponsored, Vanessa Howard. She donated one cent and wrote: [Samantha, please come home. If you apologize properly, Harrison will forgive you. Don’t do these dishonest things again.] My fingers tightened around my phone. After thinking for a moment, I said nothing, simply applying for the withdrawal. The stray cat I had adopted, Lucky, noticed something was wrong with my mood and rubbed against my feet.
I bent down to pet its head and poured the little remaining cat food into its bowl. It meowed affectionately at me and immediately hobbled over to eat. Lucky was a disabled cat with one of its legs broken. It ate while occasionally looking up at me. Meeting its eager gaze, my throat tightened, and I felt as if I was back to that night when Harrison kicked me out of the house. His disgusted voice, cold as ice, echoed in my mind, “If you won’t admit you’re wrong, then get out. I don’t want you anymore!”