The Sisterhood

My name is Mike Carter, and I've been with Yolanda Lincoln for a whole year. During that time, she was like a warm light shining into my otherwise dull, ordinary life. Yolanda always said it was because of me that she finally got to experience being cherished like a princess, beyond her older sister's protection. I knew how hard it had been for her. Their parents died in a car accident when she was fifteen, and it was her older sister, Shirley Lincoln, eight years her senior, who raised her. The first time I saw Shirley, she looked pale and spoke softly. There was a faint purple scar on the nape of her neck, which Yolanda said came from a childhood burn accident. I felt deeply for Yolanda; after we started dating, I became especially patient with her dependence on her sister, always thinking it was her only real connection. On our anniversary, Yolanda Lincoln had already reserved a suite at a downtown hot spring hotel. "There's a special surprise tonight," she messaged me, adding a shy emoji. "Remember to wear that white shirt I bought you." I carefully styled my hair, sprayed on the woody fragrance she liked, and adjusted my bow tie repeatedly in front of the mirror. Thinking about how frugal she usually was—debating even over half sugar or full sugar for bubble tea—but still willing to book such an expensive suite, I felt a warm glow inside. I pushed open the suite door to find a path of rose petals stretching from the entrance to the bedroom. Candlelight flickered, and the air was thick with a mix of champagne and scented oils. Yolanda Lincoln wore a silk nightgown, sitting on the sofa with a blush on her cheeks and anticipation in her eyes. Happy anniversary, Mike Carter. She stood up and embraced me, her voice soft and husky. I lowered my head to kiss her; her lips were cool, carrying the sweet taste of champagne. She took my hand willingly and headed toward the bedroom, though the tremble in her fingertips betrayed her. I thought she was just shy, so I smiled and gently squeezed her palm, signaling her to relax. The candlelight in the bedroom was dimmer, the sheer curtains hanging low, casting an intimate atmosphere. She lay on the soft bed, her hair scattered across the pillow, her eyes hazy as she looked at me. I leaned in close, my nose brushing her nape, but suddenly I felt a raised scar—not the "burn" Yolanda Lincoln had mentioned, but a neat, pale pink mark about two centimeters long, its edges still marked with fine stitch marks. I froze, an inexplicable unease settling deep in my chest. I had touched Yolanda's nape countless times—smooth, delicate skin, never marked by a scar like this. I suddenly looked up and, by the candlelight, clearly saw the face beneath me — it was Shirley Lincoln. Her eyes were tightly shut, eyelashes trembling, her complexion as pale as paper, and the scar on the nape of her neck starkly visible in the candlelight. "Who are you?!" I recoiled sharply, as if burned, my voice hoarse from shock. Shirley opened her eyes, her gaze full of panic and shame, her lips trembling, unable to speak. The bathroom door suddenly swung open. Yolanda Lincoln stepped out, still wearing the silky nightdress from before, her face calm, devoid of surprise, with only a pleading quietness. "Mike, please, just listen to me." She walked over to the bed and took Shirley Lincoln's hand. Blood rushed to my head as I angrily pointed at Shirley. "What's going on? Why are you here?" "My older sister... she's not going to make it." Yolanda's voice cracked with tears as they rolled down her cheeks. "She's in the late stages of uremia. She needs dialysis three times a week, and the scar on the nape of her neck is from the fistula surgery for it." I was stunned. Yolanda had only said Shirley was unwell before, never that her condition was this serious. "I know this sounds ridiculous," Yolanda Lincoln knelt before me, clutching the leg of my pants. "But my older sister has never been in a relationship, never known what it's like to be loved. She only has three months left." I looked at her tear-streaked face, my heart a mix of anger and confusion. "So you tricked me into coming here, just so your sister could take your place? Yolanda, what do you think I am?" "I'm begging you, Mike." Yolanda raised her head, eyes swollen and red. "My sister's greatest wish is to experience what it's like to be a woman in bed even once—maybe... even to have her own child." "Are you crazy?" I yanked my hand away from hers sharply, stepping back a few paces, a cold shiver running through me. She collapsed onto the floor, her shoulders shaking violently. "I have no choice. My older sister is my only family. She gave up going to college for me, gave up her own life—I can't watch her leave this world with regrets." I looked at her, then over at Shirley Lincoln, curled up on the bed with her head buried in her knees, her shoulders trembling as well. "I know this isn't fair to you," Yolanda Lincoln choked, "but I really have no other choice. As long as you agree, I'll do anything. I don't want the car, the house, or the dowry—I can even be your servant for life." I felt a wave of nausea—not toward Shirley Lincoln, but toward Yolanda's pathological obsession. The girl who was usually gentle, caring, and understanding seemed like a completely different person now, her eyes carrying a kind of obsessive madness. "Impossible," I ground my teeth. "Yolanda, you've really let me down." As I turned to leave, Yolanda suddenly grabbed my leg. "Mike, please, just think it over again. My older sister is really dying. Just have a little pity on her, or a little pity on me, okay?" Her tears soaked the cuffs of my pants, cold and sharp. I remembered all the kindness Yolanda had shown me—how she always made me supper when I worked late, how she stayed by my side all night when I was sick—and my heart tightened painfully. But when I thought back to the scene just now, and the absurd request she made, I couldn't bring myself to give in.