Chapter 22: IT'S ALL MY FAULT.

Chapter 22: IT'S ALL MY FAULT.
The hospital corridors felt endless, stretching into a maze of white walls and sharp fluorescent lights. My shoes echoed against the tiles as I half-walked, half-ran, weaving through nurses, patients, and visitors. My chest tightened with every breath, not just from the running but from the dread clawing at me inside.

Mom was already ahead. She had moved faster, guided by desperation. I had slowed at some point, my legs heavy, my thoughts tangled, and by then I’d lost her in the crowd.

She later told me she had wandered too, stopping strangers with urgent questions, trying to find the right room. At last, a doctor in charge had shown her the way. By the time I arrived, she was already standing outside the door.

We entered together.

The sight froze me in place.

Betty lay motionless on the bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling fan. The blades spun lazily, slicing the air with a low hum. She didn’t turn her head when we walked in. She didn’t blink. It was as if she was locked in another world, far away from us, and the fan was the only thing holding her there.

“Betty?!” Mom’s voice cracked the silence.

No answer. No movement. Nothing.

That was when Mom’s fragile hope finally broke. Until now, she had clung to the idea that maybe the news wasn’t real, maybe the whispers weren’t true. But seeing her daughter lying there so still, so absent, she couldn’t deny it anymore.

The room grew unbearably quiet. I could hear my own heartbeat — slow and heavy at first, then racing, pounding until it filled my ears.

I stepped forward, placed my hands gently on Mom’s shoulders. Her body shook as tears rolled down her cheeks. Somehow, they became my tears too. When our eyes met, it was like looking into a mirror of pain. Both of us were asking the same silent question: How did it come to this?

“How does Betty… carry my child?” The words slipped out of me, fragile, trembling.

Mom didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her silence told me what her mouth could not — that this wasn’t the time for blame or explanations. It was the time to fight for Betty’s return, if that was still possible.

Suddenly, my phone rang. The screen lit up with Darius’s name.

I swallowed hard. “Mom,” I asked quietly, “does he know Betty is in the hospital?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice low, flat. “I told him. But he doesn’t know how serious it is unless we explain. Go ahead, answer the call.” She gave me a small nod, as if passing me a burden she could no longer carry.

I stepped into the hallway and pressed accept, but the line went dead before I could speak. A hollow beep echoed in my ear.

My heart sank. I tried to call back, but the screen flashed a warning: Insufficient airtime.

Frustration welled up in me. I rushed back into the room to grab Mom’s phone. Before I could dial, it vibrated in my hand. The call was coming in again.

This time, I answered without hesitation.

“Hey, dear,” Darius’s voice floated through the line — calm, smooth, almost comforting.

But his tone shifted quickly. “Can you come over to the hospital? We need to talk about something important.”

Something in his words carried weight.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, steadying my voice. “I’ll be there soon. I… I also have something to tell you.”

“Something to tell me?” His voice sharpened with curiosity.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Don’t worry. I’m on my way.” I ended the call before doubt could creep into my tone.

But reality pressed on me: Betty and Darius weren’t in the same hospital. Their preferences, their routines, had pulled them into different corners of the city. It meant leaving one battlefield for another.

When I stepped back into Betty’s room, the air felt heavier, colder. The hum of the air conditioner pressed against my skin like ice. I pulled my coat tighter, but the chill was inside me too. Betty had drifted into sleep, her face pale, fragile, almost translucent in the dim light.

“I just hope things don’t get out of hand this time,” I whispered to myself, sending a quiet prayer upward.

Mom sat by the bed, her head resting on the mattress near Betty’s hand. Her shoulders sagged, weighed down by exhaustion and grief. She looked so small at that moment, so breakable.

I walked to her, tapped her shoulder gently. “Mom,” I said softly. “I’ll be leaving for now. Darius called me. He wants to talk, and I need to tell him about Betty’s condition.”

She nodded faintly, not lifting her head. No words, just a silent acknowledgment.

“Okay… I’ll catch up with you later.” My words felt thin, fragile, as I turned and left the room.

The hallway swallowed me again.

The hospital was bright, modern, and almost beautiful in its design. The tiles gleamed, the lights stretched endlessly. But beauty in a place like this felt twisted. A hospital is not meant to be admired. It’s a place of pain, of waiting, of survival. Nobody chooses to belong here — but some of us have no choice.

“How do I even tell Darius what happened today?” I muttered under my breath.

My chest tightened again, as if blood was frozen inside me, heavy and unmoving. I had never prayed for a day like this. All I had ever wanted was to hold my sister again, whole and smiling. But life had flipped everything upside down.

I tried to find the exit, but the corridors twisted like a labyrinth. I turned left, then right, but each corner looked the same: white walls, numbered doors, tired faces.

“Did I just get lost in a hospital?” I laughed bitterly, pausing in the middle of the hall.

The sun was dipping lower outside. “I need to get out before it’s dark,” I whispered.

I asked for directions, but the people I stopped seemed just as disoriented as me. No clear answers, only vague gestures. My frustration grew until I finally pulled out my phone and opened Maps. A glowing blue dot centered on my location, and at last, a line appeared, guiding me step by step.

Following the path, I finally pushed through the exit doors and breathed in the evening air.

Just then, my phone rang again. Darius.

I froze. Too much time had passed. My fingers hovered over the screen, but instead of answering, I shoved the phone into my pocket and walked faster toward the road.

Still, silence wasn’t an option. If I didn’t reassure him, he’d worry. I pulled the phone back out, opened WhatsApp, and typed quickly: On my way. Long road. Don’t worry. Then I logged off again.

At first, I thought about heading to the park to catch a public bus. It was cheaper, familiar. But the thought of crowded seats, the chatter of strangers, the press of shoulders against mine — I couldn’t handle it. Not tonight.

I needed privacy. I needed speed. I needed space to think.

So I changed my plan.

I reopened the app and booked a private car. Just as I did, a message from Darius popped up. My chest tightened as I read his words. Short. Urgent. Impatient.

I typed back quickly, just enough to keep him calm, then logged off again.

The car arrived almost immediately. The driver had been close. Relief swept over me as I climbed in, the faint scent of vanilla air freshener filling the space.

I gave him the address, then leaned back into the seat, my heart still hammering.

Before we even pulled out of the lot, I set my phone to Do Not Disturb. No more calls. No more interruptions.

This wasn’t the time for excuses or small talk.

It was the time for truth.

It was the time to face what Darius and I had done — and to discover whether anything could ever undo it.