Chapter 2: A Stranger's Kindness, A Sister's Coldness

Just then, my older coworker called:

“Maya, I heard you’re sick. You live alone, right? I’ve got some meds—text me your address, I’ll drop them off.”

Her voice was warm—the kind that makes you feel safe, even through the phone. I almost started crying again, but I held it together long enough to send my address.

Half an hour later, I found a big package at my door.

The bag was heavy—stuffed with medicine, fruit, and microwave meals. It felt like Christmas morning, only better.

A box of fever reducer, a box of cold meds, half a box of Advil, plus lots of fruit and microwave meals.

She’d even tucked in a note: “Get well soon! Call me if you need anything.”

She also texted me:

“We only have two boxes of Advil at home. There are a lot of us, so I can only spare half a box—don’t mind, okay?”

I stared at my phone, tears streaming down my face. Even when she didn’t have much, she still gave what she could.

I bawled under my covers.

The sobs wracked my body, but this time, they felt like a release. I wasn’t alone after all.

A week later, I recovered—and lost eight pounds in the process.

My clothes hung loose, cheeks hollow. But I was alive, and that was enough.

Wendy, as if she could sense it, suddenly messaged me:

“Sis, are you better? I was so worried about you.”

Her message popped up out of nowhere, as if she’d been thinking of me all along. But I knew better.

I snorted and didn’t rush to reply.

I tossed my phone onto the bed, not ready to play her game again.

Our last chat was from the day I’d asked her for medicine. She hadn’t checked in on me at all for a whole week.

Not a single text, not even a meme. It was like I didn’t exist.

Looking back, I realized I was always the one reaching out—sharing my ups and downs, reminding her to take care of herself.

I’d send her photos of my lunch, funny stories from work, reminders to drink water. Most of the time, she barely responded.

Usually, I’d say several things before she’d reply with a single “mm” or a half-hearted sticker.

It was like talking to a wall. I felt foolish every time I hit send.

It felt like… a doormat texting a goddess.

I laughed at myself, but it wasn’t funny. I’d let her treat me this way for years.

She almost never reached out first.

I couldn’t remember the last time she’d texted me just to say hi.

The few times she did, it was to ask for money, movie tickets, or help with online shopping deals.

Her requests always came with a smiley face, as if that made it okay.

So much had been obvious for a long time, but I was slow to catch on.

I guess I just didn’t want to admit it. Hope is a stubborn thing.

I wondered what angle she was working this time.

I braced myself for another ask, another favor. It was always something.

Out of curiosity, I sent a question mark.

Just a simple “?”—I wanted to see what she’d say.

She immediately called, her voice choked with tears:

“Sis, my company’s laying off half the staff… It took me forever to find this job, and with the economy like this, where am I supposed to find a new one? Can you help? You’re close with my boss, right?”

Her voice was shaky, and for a second, I almost felt sorry for her. But then I remembered everything else.

Oh, right. I got her that job.

I’d stuck my neck out for her, called in favors I didn’t want to use. I’d vouched for her, told everyone she was hardworking and smart.

Her boss used to be my coworker, in the same office. I’d helped him a lot.

We’d pulled late nights together, covered each other’s shifts, swapped stories over greasy pizza in the break room.

Last year, he quit to start his own company and tried to recruit me several times.

He’d begged me to join, promised me a corner office and stock options. I’d said no, but I kept his number just in case.

I didn’t want to switch jobs, so I politely refused. When Wendy graduated this year, I introduced her instead.

I thought I was doing her a favor. I thought she’d be grateful.

I listened to her sob story with a blank face, then gave my usual gentle reply:

“Don’t worry, Wendy. I’ll call Mr. Grant right away.”

My voice was calm, but inside, I felt nothing.

As soon as he picked up, Mr. Grant started venting:

“To be honest, your sister isn’t dependable. She tells everyone her big sister’s friends with me, doesn’t even listen to the department manager…”

He sounded exhausted, like he’d been waiting for an excuse to let her go.

“But since you called, I can’t refuse you. Talk to her for me. Also, her salary will need to be cut. It’s tough for small businesses right now…”

“Don’t bother.” I cut him off. “Please, just fire her.”

The words came out colder than I expected. I didn’t even feel guilty.

After she got the layoff notice, Wendy went crazy—calling and messaging nonstop.

My phone buzzed so much I had to put it on silent. She left voicemails, texts, even emails. I ignored them all.

I didn’t answer. She even waited for me outside the office.

I spotted her from the lobby window, pacing back and forth, arms crossed. She looked determined, like she wouldn’t leave until she got what she wanted.

She was wearing a new mini skirt, skin-tone tights, a sweatshirt, and tall boots—cute and stylish.

She always dressed like she had somewhere important to be, even when she was falling apart inside.

“Sis, what the hell? Mr. Grant actually fired me. Didn’t you talk to him? I’ve only worked half a year. Where am I supposed to go now?”

She grabbed my arm, her voice so shrill it drew stares from coworkers.

People slowed down as they passed, pretending not to listen but clearly eavesdropping. I felt my cheeks burn.

I said, “I didn’t talk to him.”

Her grip loosened, her expression changed. She demanded:

“Why? Did he stop listening to you? Or did you forget?”

I stayed silent.

I let her stew in the silence, watching her try to piece it together.

“I get it. You did it on purpose.”

She gave a mocking laugh, looking at me with contempt.

Her eyes were cold, and for a moment, I didn’t recognize her at all.

“All because I wouldn’t give you medicine? But you’re fine now, aren’t you?”

“Sis, you’re so petty, holding a grudge over something so small.”

She rolled her eyes, as if I was the unreasonable one. Classic Wendy.

“Wendy,” I called her full name.

She flinched, just a little. I never used her full name unless I meant business.

“You think Mr. Grant listens to me—ever wonder why?”

She stared at me, confused, waiting for the punchline.

“To get you that job, I tutored his daughter for free for a year, because she only listens to me.”

“Your job cost me a year of my free time. While you were binge-watching shows, shopping, and going to movies after work, I had to coax a stubborn kid.”

I watched her eyes widen as the truth sank in. She’d never thought about what it cost me.

“When I was sick and in agony, my coworker drove half an hour to bring me medicine, while you lived less than twenty minutes away by bike.”

“Now ask yourself—do you deserve it?”

She stood there, looking pitiful, as if she’d suffered some great injustice.

Her lips trembled, but no words came out. She looked smaller than I’d ever seen her.

A security guard came over. “If you have something to say, take it easy…”

He glanced nervously between us, not sure whose side to take.

“She doesn’t work here. If she comes again, kick her out.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked into the office without looking back.

The lobby doors closed behind me with a satisfying click. I didn’t let myself cry.