Chapter 167
It was Mom's attending physician who came with two interns for routine rounds.
The doctor carefully asked Mom how she felt after surgery, checked her wound and various indicators, and gave some instructions—things like her leg couldn't bear weight, taking medicine on time, keeping watch for any issues.
After the doctor and his group left to check the next room, a nurse pushed a treatment cart in to give Mom an IV.
The nurse skillfully disinfected, inserted the needle, and secured it.
Perhaps feeling the atmosphere in the room was a bit dull, she started chatting with another nurse who was changing the dressing for a patient in the neighboring bed while adjusting the drip rate. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was clear in the quiet hospital room.
"You know that Mr. Smith in the VIP ward—didn't his cold get better ages ago? Why hasn't he been discharged yet? He's been here for days now," the nurse doing the IV said casually.
The nurse changing dressings looked up, pursed her lips, lowered her voice with a gossipy tone, "Who knows? Maybe he's rich and treating the hospital like a hotel. But I heard he seems to be waiting for someone to visit him?"
The atmosphere in the room froze for a moment at the nurse's careless words.
Mom's eyes unconsciously turned to me, with a hint of barely noticeable tension and worry.
My hands didn't pause for a second as I peeled the apple, my expression remained calm and undisturbed, as if they were talking about a complete stranger who had nothing to do with me.
News about George had long lost any appeal to me.
Whether he was staying in a luxury ward on the hospital's top floor, or had already been discharged to return to his business empire. Whether he was waiting for someone, or simply treating the hospital like a hotel—none of it concerned me.
I didn't care, and I didn't want to know.
But what the nurse said next broke that calm a little.
The other nurse seemed to get into the conversation and added in a low voice, "Yeah, he must be waiting for that Mrs. Smith."
"I saw her again this morning when I was delivering medicine to the VIP floor. She's really beautiful and elegant, speaks so gently, and is so attentive to Mr. Smith—peeling fruit, pouring water, doing everything herself."
"The way Mr. Smith talks to her is different from how he talks to us—much gentler. I'm so envious. This is what you call a perfect match, a wealthy couple deeply in love, right?"
The title "Mrs. Smith" was like a tiny thorn piercing the air.
Mom couldn't hold it in anymore. She had already been holding in her anger and grievances about the company and about me, and now hearing this kind of twisted talk, she got so angry it made her wound hurt.
She suddenly lifted her head and practically shouted at the two nurses who hadn't left the room yet, "Bullshit!"
The word was simple, forceful, carrying the kind of anger and defensiveness of someone pushed to their limit.
The two nurses, who had been organizing their things with their heads down, jumped in surprise and looked up at Mom, confused about why this patient who had been so pleasant earlier was suddenly so angry.
Mom's chest heaved, and she wanted to say more. I quickly reached out to gently press her shoulder, soothing her in a low voice, "Mom, don't get upset. You just had surgery, you can't get emotional."
The two nurses looked at each other, probably feeling awkward. Without saying anything more, they quickly gathered their things and hurried out of the room with the treatment cart.
The door closed, leaving just us mother and daughter in the room.
Mom's eyes immediately reddened—not for herself, but feeling indignant and heartbroken for me.
"I'm so angry!" Mom's voice was choked with emotion, "What are they even saying? What Mrs. Smith? What perfect match? You're George's legitimate wife! What right do they have to say that? George, he..."
"Mom," I interrupted her, my tone still flat, even with a hint of a comforting smile, "I won't be for much longer. I really don't care what others say, and I don't care who's standing by his side now."
I looked into Mom's eyes and said seriously, "None of that has anything to do with me anymore."
Mom looked at me, her lips moved, and finally she just let out a heavy sigh.
Maybe she wanted to comfort me, or maybe she was afraid saying too much would bring up my sadness.
She didn't know that those emotions that could hurt me had long been exhausted through disappointment after disappointment and seeing things clearly.
After the pain becomes numbness, all that's left is complete clarity and determination.
At lunchtime, I went to the hospital cafeteria to get food for Mom.
While waiting in line, I took out my phone and pulled up the contact information for those investors Mom had shown me before.
I wasn't ready to give up—I wanted to try one more time.
Mom's company was her and Flora's hard work over many years, and their security and hope for the future.
I couldn't just watch it be crushed by Tom's despicable tactics.
I dialed the first number.
The call connected, and the person recognized me and was polite enough, but as soon as they heard I was calling about investment in Mom's company, they immediately became evasive, speaking in bureaucratic language, "Ms. Brown, it's not that we don't believe in your mother's abilities, it's just the overall environment."
"Small travel companies—their survival space is being squeezed too hard. Tom's side has capital and resources backing him. We small companies really can't compete."
"I'd advise you to have your mother consider changing direction, doing something else? The travel industry is too complicated now."
I patiently tried to explain that small companies have their own flexibility and special features, trying to fight for even a sliver of opportunity.
But they just sighed, repeatedly emphasizing they couldn't compete, and finally hung up hastily.
I made two more calls with similar results.
Their attitude, rather than lacking confidence in the market, seemed more like a clear, unspoken taking of sides and avoidance.
Tom's travel company was indeed large.
But did small companies really have no chance of survival at all?
Especially when Mom had already made initial progress and gained some recognition?
Unless there was a more powerful force behind the scenes making a clear statement, even applying pressure, making these investors completely give up hope and not dare to have any connection with Mom's company.
What else had George done?
Could just a tacit attitude make these people so wary that they didn't even dare try?
My heart felt ice cold. I had a vague answer, but the coldness behind that answer was chilling.
After getting the food and returning to the room, I set out the dishes. While Mom was eating, I asked again about the company's specific difficulties and details.
Mom's eyes flickered. She shoveled a couple bites of rice into her mouth and said vaguely, "Why are you asking so much? When I get better, I'll go out and find investors again."
"You're already too busy with your own work and taking care of Milly. Don't worry about my situation." She paused, speaking in a tone that tried to sound relaxed but couldn't hide her exhaustion, "Worst case, I just won't run this company anymore. I've already listed the company with an agency to see if anyone's willing to take it over. If it really sells, I can get some money, and then think of other options, or start a small business and make a comeback."
My hand gripping the utensils suddenly tightened. I looked at her in shock, "Listed it? Why would you list it? Mom, this company is yours and Flora's hard work over all these years."
Mom's company—after her divorce, she built it up bit by bit with her savings and Flora's support.
From a small travel agency storefront to its current scale, it contained so much sweat and hope.
It was her dream and her backbone.
But now she was saying she wanted to sell it?