Chapter 159
I had just stepped into the elevator when my phone rang.
I looked at the caller ID on the screen—it was Violet's number.
The conversation I'd overheard at the hospital room door earlier pierced my heart like an ice pick, so cold that my fingertips were trembling.
George's words "just very good friends"—said so matter-of-factly, so casually—as if six years of marriage and all my years of devotion meant less than that Sarah he called "not easy" in his mouth.
I took a deep breath and pressed the answer button.
"Grandma." My voice was so calm it surprised even me.
"Grace, did you come? Where are you?" Violet's voice came through the receiver, carrying obvious anticipation and a barely noticeable tension.
I watched the elevator numbers dropping and said flatly, "Grandma, I'm sorry, I can't make it. There's an emergency meeting at the company, I have to rush back to handle it."
I paused, then continued, "Next time when I get a chance, I'll come visit you."
Without waiting for Violet's response, I hung up.
My fingers felt stiff as I shoved my phone back into my bag. I leaned against the cold wall and closed my eyes.
When I came here, though my heart was heavy, at least it was calm.
I thought I'd prepared myself to face everything.
But now, I just felt like there was a ball of damp, cold cotton stuffed in my chest, heavy and pressing down so hard I could barely breathe.
So George wasn't unaware that what he did would hurt me—he just didn't think it counted as hurt at all.
In his eyes, his coldness toward me, his neglect, even letting others humiliate me—probably none of that mattered.
While the attention he gave Sarah, his blatant favoritism—that was what he considered good.
What he called good was the sharpest weapon that hurt me most—a blade that drew no blood but cut straight into the softest part of my heart.
I couldn't go back to work in this state. There was a project meeting this afternoon, and I needed to be calm, rational, and professional.
I drove away from the hospital, but didn't go straight back to the office. The car wandered aimlessly for a while before finally stopping in the underground parking lot of a large supermarket.
I went inside, walked straight to the cold drinks section, grabbed a bottle of chilled mineral water, twisted off the cap, tilted my head back and gulped down more than half of it. The ice-cold liquid slid down my throat and into my stomach, bringing a brief, sharp clarity.
But it wasn't enough.
I paid and took the bottle back to my car, but didn't start the engine.
I needed a place to release the suffocating frustration and dull pain that was about to explode inside me.
I remembered there was an outdoor platform on the top floor of the company building that few people visited.
Twenty minutes later, I parked my car back at the office building, took the elevator straight to the top floor, and pushed open the heavy fire door. The empty platform came into view.
This place was normally only used for equipment maintenance. Right now it was deserted, with only the sound of howling wind.
I walked to the railing and looked down at the miniaturized traffic and pedestrians below.
Then I opened my mouth and used every ounce of strength in my body to let out a long-suppressed, hoarse scream into the empty sky.
No specific words, just sound—releasing all the grievance, anger, unwillingness, and lingering pain from my chest.
One scream, then another. Until my throat was dry and sore, until my eyes burned hot, until that ball of cotton blocking my chest seemed to scatter a bit, and my breathing finally became a little easier.
I gripped the railing, gasping for air, letting the early autumn wind dry the moisture seeping from the corners of my eyes.
After a long while, my heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
I straightened my wind-blown hair and collar, took several deep breaths, tried to restore my expression to normal, then turned and went downstairs, back to the office.
The afternoon work was busy, with one meeting after another.
I forced myself to focus all my attention on project data, market analysis, and team coordination, filling every single second with high-intensity work, leaving no time for random thoughts.
The sky outside gradually darkened. When the time in the bottom right corner of my computer showed it was time for kindergarten pickup, I shut down my computer, gathered my things, and drove to pick up Milly.
When I picked up Milly, I noticed something was wrong.
Usually after school, she was like a happy little bird, chattering away, eager to share the fun things that happened at kindergarten.
But today, she carried her little backpack, silently walked to my side, took my hand, her little head hanging low, not saying a word.
"Milly?" I crouched down to her eye level, trying to make my voice sound cheerful, "What's wrong? Were you unhappy at kindergarten today? Did someone bully Milly?"
Milly shook her head but still didn't speak. Her big eyes were covered with a layer of moisture, the rims slightly red.
My heart tightened. I led her to the car and lifted her into the child seat, fastening her seatbelt.
Getting into the driver's seat, I didn't start the car right away. Instead, I turned around and asked gently, "Milly, tell Mommy what happened. Mommy is very worried about you."
Milly lifted her little face to look at me, her lips pressed tightly together, as if trying hard to hold something back.
After several seconds, she finally spoke in a small voice, with a sob in her throat, "Mommy, I heard Jack say that Mr. Smith is sick, in the hospital, and it's serious. Is that true?"
My heart felt like it was being squeezed hard by an invisible hand.
So that was it.
I looked at her eyes filled with worry and fear, and my throat suddenly felt painfully sore.
Just yesterday I had told her so seriously that the Smith family had nothing to do with us anymore.
She had nodded hard too, saying she wouldn't treat Jack as her brother anymore, and wouldn't call George daddy anymore.
But how could a child's heart let go so easily?
That was the fatherly love she had longed for for years, the daddy she had carefully looked up to and hoped for.
Even though all George had given her was neglect and coldness.
But in her small world, that blood tie, that original definition, was still deeply rooted.
She couldn't let go that quickly.
A deep sadness and heartache welled up, for my daughter and for myself.
I forced a smile and reached out to touch her soft cheek, "Milly, he is sick, but it's not very serious. His fever has broken, and he'll get better soon."
I paused, my voice becoming gentler but also clearer, "And there's someone taking care of him—Jack's mommy, Ms. Wilson."
"With her there, he'll get better soon, so Milly doesn't need to worry, okay?"
I thought this explanation would comfort her a bit.
But after hearing it, Milly's eyes grew even redder. Tears quickly gathered in her big eyes, as if they would overflow any second.
She bit her lower lip, looking both stubborn and wronged, breaking my heart.
"Mommy..." She sniffled, her voice trembling with a heavy sob, "Can we... can we go see Daddy?"
"I don't want Daddy to die..." Her tears finally fell, rolling down in big drops, landing on her little dress, "Even though he doesn't like us, doesn't like me, he's the only daddy I have..."
She lifted her tear-blurred little face to look at me, her eyes full of childish confusion and deep hurt, "Mommy, I'm clearly better than Jack. I draw better than him, sing better than him, and the teacher always praises me for being good."
"But why doesn't Daddy want me to call him Daddy? Why does he only like Jack?"
"Is it because I'm not good enough yet?"
As she spoke, she finally couldn't hold it in anymore and began to sob quietly, her shoulders shaking.
My eyes instantly burned hot, my heart felt like it was being gripped tightly by an icy hand, aching and convulsing.