I lived on the good graces of my aunt and uncle for three years. My Aunt Carol made the same meal for me every single night: a plate of rare, boiled prawns. "Eat up, Vera," she'd say, her voice flat. "They're good for you." I have always had a severe aversion to the briny, iodine-rich smell of seafood, and I’d feed the whole lot to the stray cat in the backyard when she wasn't looking. After three years of this luxury diet, that scrawny street cat had ballooned into a magnificent, glossy, orange giant. Then came the pre-employment physical. The doctor stared at my lab report, his expression stunned. "You're twenty-three, but your liver function markers are comparable to a professional athlete's. How exactly do you manage your diet?" I was speechless. Walking home, one single, repeated phrase echoed in my mind... 01 The medical examination report report was a thin, flimsy sheet of paper, but in my grip, it felt like a lead weight. The doctor’s bewildered question was still buzzing in my ears. Liver function comparable to a professional athlete. It made no sense. I, Vera Hartley, an orphan who only finished college thanks to the grudging charity of my extended family, lived a life where the most rigorous exercise was walking from my bedroom to the dining room. As for "managing my diet," I could barely afford to buy a decent moisturizer, let alone a personalized health regimen. A blast of late summer heat hit me, but I felt a deep, chilling cold run down my spine. I pushed open the front door, the familiar scent of oil and spice immediately washing over me. Aunt Carol Peterson was emerging from the kitchen, a platter in her hands. The moment she saw me, her eyes—which always seemed to be evaluating my worth—narrowed. "Well? Did you finally find a job? Hanging around outside all day. People will think we're running a charity here, keeping a grown woman idle." Her voice was low but laser-sharp, every word a tiny stone hitting my chest. I lowered my gaze. "I found one. I start next Monday." "You did?" Carol paused, then slammed the platter onto the dining table with a sharp, jarring clatter. "It only took getting a job for you to speak up, did it? After all these years of eating our food and living under our roof, you're finally going to be useful." I clenched the report tighter, my nails pressing hard into my palms. Uncle David walked out of the living room, a weary peacemaker. "Now, Carol, finding a job is great news, Vera. Come on, wash up and let’s eat." The dinner table felt, as always, like a trap. Carol brought out the last dish—the inevitable steamed spot prawns. She pushed the plate toward me, her tone devoid of warmth. "Eat more. They're good for you." That same phrase. Every night for three years. I looked at the pink, curled bodies on the plate. My stomach churned. I’d always hated the smell of these crustaceans. It wasn't just fishy; it was a deep, primal scent that felt like it seeped into my bones, making me restless. My cousin, Brett, plopped into his chair, immediately snagging the last sparerib from the serving dish. Chewing loudly, he glanced at me with disdain. "Oh, look how special some people are. Getting their own plate of gourmet shrimp every night. Unlike me, stuck with plain old pork ribs." His snide, entitled tone made the knot in my chest tighten. In this house, I was a perpetual outsider, a burdensome charity case living off their generosity. Carol gave Brett a half-hearted glare but didn't correct him. She just pushed the plate closer to me. "What are you staring at? Eat them. They’ll get fishier when they cool." I picked up my fork, selecting one prawn. The odor rose, and my throat tightened. In the past, I'd always found a way to discreetly dump them in the trash or, better yet, feed them to the stray cat by the garden wall. But tonight, the doctor's words were a relentless mantra in my head: Liver function. Athlete. Diet. Prawns. Good for you. Was there a connection I’d missed? For the first time, I didn't immediately plot how to dispose of this "torture device." I studied the platter. The shells were translucent, the meat plump. They didn't look quite like the regular shrimp I’d occasionally seen in the supermarket. I forced myself to ask, my voice a tentative whisper. "Aunt Carol, where exactly do you buy these? They look... different." Carol was preoccupied, picking a piece of bone out of Brett’s pork chop. She didn't look up, snapping back immediately. "Why do you care? Just eat. Does everything have to be a conversation?" Her retort slammed the door on all my questions. A surge of suppressed anger flashed through me, but I crushed it. Hold it in, Vera. You have no right to complain here. I looked down, mechanically pushing plain pasta around my plate, saying nothing else. The rest of the meal was a tasteless blur. After dinner, I took the dishes to the kitchen without being asked. Under the loud rush of the faucet, I scraped the near-full plate of prawns into a plastic bag I’d secretly placed under the sink. Using the excuse of taking out the trash, I headed toward the back garden. The orange stray—Cheeto, I’d mentally named him—seemed to be expecting me. He emerged from the shadows, letting out a soft, expectant meow. I emptied the contents of the bag into his little ceramic bowl. He immediately dove in, scarfing down the meat with gusto, a low, contented purr rumbling in his throat. I knelt down and stroked his back. Three years of high-end seafood had transformed him from a scrawny kitten into a sleek, formidable creature. His coat was thick and glossy, his eyes bright and alert. He looked... incredibly healthy. A ridiculous thought sparked in my mind. Could these prawns genuinely be something extraordinary? That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed, endlessly scrolling through my phone: "benefits of spot prawns," "shrimp for liver health." The results were generic: high in protein, rich in nutrients. Nothing hinted at any miraculous, liver-boosting properties. They were ordinary food with ordinary effects. I tried different keywords: "special medical prawns," "rare brackish water shrimp," "black market seafood." The results were even more far-fetched, mostly ads for herbal supplements. I turned off my phone. The room was dark, but my mind was brightly lit. Something was wrong. There was a piece of the puzzle missing. I made a decision. Tomorrow, I would find out where exactly Aunt Carol was getting these prawns. 02 The next morning, I woke before dawn. I put on a dark hoodie, a pair of jeans, a cap, and a mask—trying not to look like I was staking out a crime scene. Carol's routine was clockwork: she left for groceries at 6:30 a.m. sharp. I hid behind the living room curtains, watching her walk out the gate with her market tote. I waited a full minute, then slipped out and followed her. The streets were quiet. I kept my distance, cautious and tense. The neighborhood market was only a fifteen-minute walk. My heart hammered against my ribs, my palms slick with sweat. I didn't know if I was more afraid of being caught or of what the secret might turn out to be. Carol walked briskly, heading straight into the bustling Farmers Market. I melted into the crowd, my eyes locked on her. She navigated the vegetable stands and the butcher sections, but she didn't stop. My gut clenched. She wasn't going to the seafood area—the wet, loud, pungent section full of fish and crab. She walked straight past it. She walked straight through the entire market and exited out the back. Startled, I hurried after her. The market backed onto a dark, old alleyway, walls patchy with green moss, the ground uneven and damp. The air here was heavy and stagnant. The alley was deserted. Carol turned a corner into the deeper part of the lane and stopped, taking out her phone to check the time, clearly waiting for someone. I ducked behind a stack of abandoned cardboard boxes, poking only half my head out. I held my breath. Five minutes later, a beat-up utility truck rattled down the alley from the opposite end and pulled up beside her. The driver was a middle-aged man in a faded ball cap, his face obscured by shadow. He didn't speak. He just hoisted a large white styrofoam cooler from the back of the truck. He opened the lid. A plume of white vapor, like dry ice, rose into the morning air. The man pulled out a black plastic bag, tightly sealed, and handed it to Carol. She took the bag. Almost simultaneously, she pulled a thick manila envelope from her tote and slipped it to the man. He weighed the envelope in his hand, gave a short nod of satisfaction, loaded the cooler back onto the truck, and sped away. The whole transaction took less than sixty seconds. No words, no greetings—it was a planned, secret exchange. I stayed frozen behind the boxes, my heart pounding so hard I felt dizzy. That large wad of cash. That mysterious man. That tightly sealed black plastic bag... The whole thing felt illicit, deeply wrong. I waited until Carol, clutching her market tote and the black bag, disappeared before I dared to move. I checked the alley entrance, but the truck was long gone. I returned home, shaken, locking myself in my room. The image played over and over: a seemingly ordinary suburban housewife making a large cash payment in a dark alley for a hidden package. That package had to contain the prawns that ended up on my dinner plate every night. What exactly were those prawns? And why were they worth such a clandestine transaction? At lunchtime, Brett was throwing a fit, demanding money for the latest gaming console. "Mom, it’s only five hundred bucks! Everyone at school has one, I'll be the only one who doesn't!" Carol’s face was etched with exhaustion and annoyance. She grumbled under her breath. "Buy, buy, buy! Is that all you know? Do you think I'm made of money, Brett? When are you going to bring some money into this house for once?" She was harsh, but she ultimately went into her bedroom and came out with a small canvas pouch. She counted out a thick stack of bills and handed it to him. I saw it clearly: her expression was one of genuine pain as she parted with the money. It was a stark, brutal contrast to the smooth, almost casual way she'd handed over the fat envelope to the mystery man that morning. She would endure her son's entitlement and spend money she clearly didn't have on a spoiled child, but she was eager to spend a huge sum on those mysterious prawns. The prawns, which were only for me. The fog of suspicion thickened, enveloping me. I realized the value of those prawns was far beyond any regular food item. And the secret behind them might be something far more difficult to bear than the simple sting of being an unwanted burden. 03 The following Monday, I officially started my job. The company was a reputable tech firm, and my starting salary was better than I’d expected. The day I got my first paycheck, holding the bank statement in my hand, I felt grounded for the first time. I could finally stop begging and live my own life. My first thought was to buy gifts for my aunt and uncle. After all, despite the atmosphere, they had seen me through college. I bought David a tin of high-grade Earl Grey tea, knowing he loved a good brew. For Carol, I hesitated. I thought about her worn-out wardrobe and decided to bite the bullet. I chose an elegant, high-quality wool-blend coat in a department store. It was expensive, costing nearly half my first month’s salary, but I didn't regret it. When I got home, I presented the gifts. David's eyes lit up at the tea. He clapped my shoulder, genuinely pleased. "That’s lovely, Vera. Our little girl is all grown up and thoughtful!" I handed the shopping bag to Carol. "This is for you, Aunt Carol." She took it suspiciously and peeked inside. It was a deep plum color, one that I thought would suit her complexion and give her a sophisticated look. I watched her, full of cautious hope, searching for a hint of a smile. But she only glanced at it, pulled it out of the bag, and tossed it carelessly onto the sofa. "Wasting money already? You just started working. You should save that for your dowry. Why would a woman my age need anything this fancy?" Her voice was laced with her usual cutting sarcasm, dousing my hopeful spark in cold water. Brett, playing a game nearby, let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Pfft. Guess you kissed the wrong butt, huh? Mom doesn't want your cheap stuff. It’s like a vulture bringing a gift to a sheep." I balled my hands into fists, my heart sinking completely. Disappointment, humiliation, and an old, familiar pain washed over me. But this time, I didn't retreat to my room to cry in secret. I simply looked at her, then at the coat lying ignored on the sofa, and turned toward the kitchen to help David make tea. Unbeknownst to me, my heart had begun to harden. Later that night, I woke up and went to the bathroom. Walking past the living room, I noticed the lights were off, the space illuminated only by a soft wash of moonlight through the window. I saw a figure standing by the sofa. It was Carol. She had quietly picked up the coat she had so scornfully rejected. I watched as she gently stroked the cashmere, then slowly held it up against herself, checking her reflection in the dark windowpane.
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