She forgot not just the piggy bank, but also the password to her bank account.
Later, she called me, lost and unsure how to get home.
I thought she was joking or just teasing me.
Even when I found her there, I thought she missed them and wanted to go back.
I never imagined that she was sick, that she had forgotten where thirty-four-year-old Anne lived.
I should have noticed.
She was sleeping more, losing weight, her memory was deteriorating, and she was having nosebleeds.
But I was too busy being happy.
I was really happy.
New surroundings, familiar friends, and a more harmonious family atmosphere.
I thought Anne's amnesia was an opportunity, a second chance from God.
But in the end, I discovered it was a curse.
Anne was dying.
She collapsed right in front of me.
The doctors said she had a malignant tumor in her brain.
In that moment, my world crumbled.
False, all false.
The amnesia, the kindness toward me—it was all fake.
She just didn't want to live anymore.
Like two years ago.
During that time, her state was very poor.
She would stare out the window, lost in thought, and wouldn't respond when I spoke to her, as if she couldn't see me.
She always locked herself in a dark, dreary room.
I frequently heard her muffled sobs.
It was such a terrible feeling.
I didn't want to understand, I just wanted to escape.
I was tired of Anne's apathy and the suffocating atmosphere at home.
Is this what a home should be like?
It's just a prison.
But I never imagined that Anne would attempt suicide.
What right did she have to commit suicide?
She brought me into this world, made me accept this terrible situation, and now she wants to abandon me and leave?
What gave her the right?
Anne couldn't die!
I cried and begged her, begged her to acknowledge me, begged her not to leave me behind.
I thought this time she wouldn't leave me behind.
But she's dying again.
It's all a lie!
But she said, "If I really wanted to kill myself, I would choose pesticide, not sleeping pills."
I suddenly remembered what she said to me two years ago.
She said she hadn't wanted to kill herself, she just couldn't sleep, that she was dying, and she feared she wouldn't be able to hold on, she needed to sleep.
I didn't believe her.
Who in their right mind would take so many sleeping pills just to sleep?
How ridiculous, I seem to never want to believe her or understand her.
I always blamed her, but where did that leave me?
I should have believed her.
I'm the person closest to her, yet I failed to notice that she trapped herself in a small world and never came out.
The doctors said that her amnesia might be her subconscious wish, to say goodbye to me as her best self at eighteen.
I begged her, begged her not to die, not to leave me behind.
Because of my prayers, she hung on day after day.
But it was too painful.
Pain that couldn't be suppressed even with a bloody head.
Exhausted from pain and crying, she lay in bed, half-asleep.
She murmured, "I need to be with York, I want to company him, I can't die! I can't..."
Her memories were becoming increasingly jumbled. She would often talk about my childhood, and then when I pressed her for details, she couldn't remember.
Auntie asked me if I hoped she would regain her memory.
I shook my head, no.
Let her memories stay at the happiest point of her life, even if that means forgetting me.
