It was early morning when Xue Yan's phone rang.
The tone was ordinary, but the moment he heard the voice on the other end, he knew something was wrong.
"Hello… Xue Yan?" came the nurse's gentle but trembling voice. "Your mother… she just passed away."
Silence.
"…Hello? Can you hear me?"
But Xue Yan had already ended the call.
He was out the door before the tears could fall, his breath shallow, his hands trembling as he stumbled down the street. His thoughts were spiraling.
No. No. She's just sleeping. Mum's just tired… Maybe they made a mistake.
His footsteps quickened. He couldn't feel the cold, couldn't hear the wind. All he knew was that he needed to reach her.
Thirty minutes later, breathless and pale, he arrived at the hospital. Without waiting for anyone to escort him, he darted toward the familiar hallway and burst into the room where she had stayed for weeks.
Empty.
The bed was made. The machines were off. The curtains were drawn.
Panic seized him.
"Where's my mother?!" he shouted, turning sharply to the nurse who had made the call.
The woman lowered her eyes and answered softly, "She's been moved… to the morgue."
The word hit Xue Yan like a blade to the chest.
"Morgue? No, no, you don't understand—she was getting better. She said she felt stronger yesterday—she told me she'd fight!" he cried.
"She… she promised me."
He collapsed onto the floor, his voice cracking as sobs overwhelmed him. "How could you do this to me, Mum? You promised you'd stay with me… You said we'd celebrate my graduation together… you lied."
He cried until his eyes were swollen shut, until his body could no longer hold him up. That afternoon, numb and aching, he dragged himself to work—not because he could bear to, but because he needed money. He borrowed from his friends and even his boss, who looked at him with pity, but gave him what he asked for. Then he took a week off to mourn.
He returned to the hospital, paid every outstanding bill in full, and with trembling hands, arranged for his mother's final rites.
Just an hour before that, Xue Yan had made another call—a call he wished he never had to make.
"Hello? Mr. Xue?" he said bitterly.
His father's cold voice responded, "Yes, who is this?"
"Your ex-wife… my mother… she just passed. She's gone," Xue Yan said, trying to remain calm, but the sobs were already rising in his throat. "If not for anything, then for the years you spent together—for the love you once claimed to have—please… come send her off."
There was silence. Then came the voice, flat and unconcerned:
"Well… if we're not too busy, I'll come with my family. You know how full our schedules are. Besides, your stepmother's in a bad mood lately… she misses her son, Xue Ying. He just returned from abroad. Maybe if he's free, we'll all come together."
That was it.
The last straw.
Xue Yan's hands clenched into fists as fury overtook the grief in his chest. His voice trembled with rage.
"Did you just hear yourself?! I'm telling you the woman who stayed by your side for sixteen years is dead—and you give me excuses? Go to hell, all of you!"
He hung up, shaking with anger.
Despite his broken heart, Xue Yan pushed forward with the arrangements. The funeral was simple but beautiful, filled with friends, coworkers, and neighbors—those who had seen how hard his mother had worked, how bright her smile was even in pain.
He lit incense, knelt before her portrait, and bowed, tears rolling silently down his face. His coworkers helped carry the casket. His friends held his shoulders as he struggled to stay upright.
And then—after it was all done, after the guests had paid their respects and the final prayers were said—the people Xue Yan never wanted to see showed up.
His father.
His father's wife.
And the golden child—Xue Ying.
They arrived late, dressed in black, as though they truly mourned. They stood at the doorway while everyone else was already leaving.
"Xue Yan," his father began, voice suddenly warm, like a snake pretending to offer comfort. "Can I talk to you?"
But Xue Yan, cold as ice, turned away.
"Yan'er," came a voice he hadn't heard in years—the fake, honey-dipped tone of Xue Ying, who only used that name to mock him. "You can't keep ignoring Father like this. He loves you. You're hurting him."
Xue Yan turned slowly, meeting Xue Ying's eyes with a look that could freeze fire.
"There is only one person in this world who ever called me 'Yan'er'—and she's lying in a coffin because of people like you."
The air thickened.
"I remember everything," Xue Yan said quietly. "When Mum and I still lived under that roof, she treated you like her own son. She cooked for you, bought you gifts… defended you. But you and that woman you call mother made our lives hell."
His voice rose. "She stayed—not because she was weak, but because she loved him. But love wasn't enough, was it? You pushed her out, lied about her, humiliated her, and when she collapsed, none of you looked back."
Xue Yan's father tried to step forward. "This is not the place—"
"Don't tell me what's appropriate," Xue Yan snapped. "In your house, you might dictate what should or shouldn't be done. But this—" he pointed around him—"this is my home. You don't get to speak here."
His stepmother stepped in. "Xue Yan, how can you talk to your brother like this? He cares about you."
"I have no brother," he said, voice dangerously calm. "I am the only child of my mother. Now take your 'family' and get the hell out of my house. You've overstayed your welcome."
They stared in stunned silence. He didn't wait.
He walked to the door, opened it wide, and in a voice so cold it chilled the room, he said, "Get out."
His father's face turned dark. "You'll regret this, boy."
But Xue Yan didn't flinch. "No. I regret ever being related to you."
As they left, he stood still, holding onto the last piece of himself he had left.
Once alone, the weight of the day crashed down on him. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, his body wracked with sobs. He cried and cried until his voice was hoarse, until the tears ran dry and the light in his eyes dimmed.
Then, everything went dark.
When he woke up, he was on the floor, cold sweat clinging to his skin. His stomach churned violently. He barely made it to the sink before vomiting—again and again—until there was nothing left inside him.
He gripped the edge of the sink, pale and shaking, thinking it was the stress, the grief, the lack of food and rest.
But something else was stirring within him.
Something he hadn't yet understood.
The nausea, the fainting, the exhaustion…Morning sickness had begun.
And with it, a new chapter of his life—a chapter darker, more complicated, but perhaps… not without hope.