Chapter 222 091
GEORGE’S fingers tightened slightly around the towel at his waist.
“Wen… Wendy, you haven’t gone to bed yet?” he asked gently, carefully masking the tension that had risen in his chest.
She sat on the edge of his neatly made bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow on her face, and in that light he could see it clearly.
She had been crying.
He walked toward her slowly, each step deliberate.
“Come on,” he said softly, sitting beside her but leaving just enough space so she wouldn’t feel crowded. “You and the twins were laughing not long ago. I thought you would all fall asleep right there from exhaustion.”
There was no response.
Her silence unsettled him more than tears would have.
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.
“Honey, tell me what it is. What is troubling you?”
Wendy’s small shoulders rose and fell with a quiet breath. For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then she lifted her face.
Her eyes were glossy but steady.
“Who is my mom?”
The question hit him like a physical blow.
He blinked.
For a second, he genuinely had no words.
“Wendy…” he started, but his voice felt dry.
She didn’t look away this time.
“Who is my mom?” she repeated.
George swallowed.
“You know the story,” he said gently. “Your mother… she passed away when you were born.”
Wendy’s jaw tightened slightly.
“That is what you always say.”
Because it’s the truth, he wanted to insist. Instead, he nodded slowly.
“Yes. She died while giving birth to you.”
Wendy shook her head.
“No.”
The firmness in her voice startled him.
He frowned slightly. “No?”
“I don’t believe that.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
George forced a calm expression.
“Why would you say that?”
She stood up now, pacing a little in front of him, small steps, restless energy.
“Because… because it doesn’t feel true,” she said, frustration rising. “You always say the same thing. The exact same words. Every time I ask.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Because the answer hasn’t changed.”
“But something in me says it has,” she whispered.
He looked at her carefully.
“Wendy…”
“When I see other kids at school talk about their moms,” she continued, voice trembling now, “when they complain about them, or laugh about them, or say their mom braided their hair or scolded them or hugged them…” She paused, swallowing. “Something inside me feels… weird.”
George remained silent.
“It doesn’t feel like she is gone,” Wendy said softly. “It feels like she is somewhere.”
His chest tightened.
“That is just longing,” he said carefully. “It is natural to wish for something you didn’t have.”
She shook her head again.
“No. It is not wishing. It’s knowing.”
Her certainty unnerved him.
He stood slowly now, coming to face her directly.
“Wendy,” he said firmly but gently, “your mother loved you. Even if she didn’t get the chance to raise you.”
“You say that too,” she replied quietly.
“Because it is true.”
She studied his face.
“For nine years,” she said, her small voice carrying surprising strength, “you have told me the same story. That she died giving birth to me. That she never held me. That she never saw me.”
He nodded.
“But whenever I close my eyes,” Wendy continued, “I feel like someone is missing me.”
The words pierced deeper than she realized.
George’s composure wavered slightly.
“That is your imagination,” he said, though his voice was softer now.
She stepped closer to him.
“No, Daddy. It is not.”
He flinched almost imperceptibly at the conviction in her tone.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said, tears finally slipping down her cheeks. “But I feel like she is alive. Like she is out there somewhere.”
He opened his mouth to counter her, but she kept going.
“And one day,” she said, wiping her cheeks stubbornly, “I’m going to find her.”
The declaration hung heavily in the room.
George stared at her.
Find her?
His heart began to pound.
“Wendy…” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You can keep telling me she died,” she continued, “but I don’t believe it anymore.”
Silence swallowed the space between them.
For years, he had repeated that same story with steady certainty. She had been too young to question it deeply. Too trusting.
But children grew. And intuition sometimes grew with them.
He searched her face, her features, her eyes, the beautiful birthmark on her nape, the faint curve of her lips— and something flickered in his own expression. Something like fear… guilt… even helplessness.
“You are tired,” he said finally, though it sounded weak even to him. “I understand it has been an emotional week.”
She shook her head one last time.
“I’m not confused.”
She stepped back toward the door.
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Wendy—”
But she had already turned the knob.
She walked out quietly, closing the door behind her with soft finality.
George stood there, unmoving.
The room suddenly felt too quiet. Too exposed.
He lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the bed she had just vacated.
His hands rested on his knees.
For the first time in years, the story he had told so confidently felt fragile.
And as the silence deepened around him, one thought echoed louder than anything else—
What if one day she truly goes looking?