Chapter 165
I never expected that this was what Mom was thinking deep down.
She saw my investment failure, the company's troubles, even her own injury and hospitalization, all as burdens.
This way of thinking made me feel even heavier and sadder than George's coldness and Sarah's provocations.
Memories from my past life surged up uncontrollably.
Mom was the same way back then, always keeping everything to herself.
When Flora was seriously ill, Mom ran back and forth between the hospital and home all alone, yet she always told me Flora was fine, just her old problem acting up, she'd be better with some rest.
When the company was struggling and the cash flow broke down, she hit walls everywhere asking people for help, completely overwhelmed, but never mentioned a word of it to me, still smiling.
Even when that gambling-addicted father, who we'd cut ties with long ago, came back later to harass her, she never let me know about those awful curses and shoving.
Mom seemed to swallow all the suffering, pressure, and grievances by herself, chew them up, and bury them in the deepest part of her heart. Then she saved her warmest smiles for Milly and me.
And what about me?
What was I doing in my past life?
My world was almost entirely occupied by George.
All my energy, all my emotions, were tied to George.
I felt joy over the slightest bit of attention from him, suffered because of his deliberate coldness, and humbled myself to please him, making endless compromises to win back a heart that was no longer with me.
Like a blind devotee, I revolved around him, ignoring the family members who had always silently supported me from behind.
Right up until Milly weakened bit by bit before my eyes, and finally stopped breathing.
That bone-chilling cold and despair was like a bucket of ice water that finally woke me up.
But by then, it was too late.
As I jumped from the rooftop holding Milly's small body, my last remaining consciousness seemed to see my soul floating away.
I saw the crowd quickly gathering below, the glaring police lights.
Then I saw Mom and Flora.
They stumbled through the crowd and rushed in. When they saw the bloody mess of Milly and me on the ground, Mom let out an inhuman, piercing scream and collapsed on the spot. Flora lunged forward like a madwoman, trying to hold us, but was stopped by the police. She could only kneel on the ground, letting out desperate, heart-wrenching wails.
At that moment, in my soul state, I felt pain and regret a thousand times worse than the moment of jumping.
How I wished everything could start over.
How I wished I could have woken up earlier, could have protected my daughter, could have been a support for Mom and Flora, instead of the source of their pain.
Perhaps heaven heard that last cry from the depths of my soul—I was actually reborn.
With memories from my past life and lessons learned through bone-deep pain, I returned to a time when Milly was healthy, when everything hadn't yet fallen into the abyss.
I swore that in this life, I would make up for all the regrets, protect my family, and never let them suffer any pain or harm because of me again.
But now it seems I'm still not doing well enough.
The shadow of the Smith family, George's tacit approval, the Wilson family's greed—they still wrapped around like poisonous vines, hurting my mom.
My heart felt heavy, but that suffocating pain was gradually replaced by something harder—determination, and also anger.
The doctor walked in at that moment, holding the latest test results.
"Ms. Luna Murphy has a slight fracture in her right tibia. It's not too serious, but for better recovery and to avoid future complications, we recommend a minimally invasive reduction and internal fixation surgery." The doctor explained in a calm tone, "It's a minor surgery with very low risk, and post-operative recovery will be relatively quick."
When Mom heard she needed surgery, a flash of nervousness crossed her face, but she quickly forced herself to stay calm.
I held her hand and nodded to the doctor, "We'll do it. Please arrange it."
I accompanied Mom to sign the surgical consent form and watched as nurses wheeled her toward the operating room.
That door slowly closed in front of me, and the red light came on.
I leaned against the cold wall, steadied myself, took out my phone, and called William.
The call connected quickly, and William's gentle voice came through, "Grace, calling at this hour—is there a problem with the project?"
"William," I got straight to the point, keeping my voice as steady as possible, "there's an emergency at home. My mom is hospitalized and needs surgery. I might need to take a few days off to stay with her at the hospital."
William paused, then his tone immediately became concerned, "What happened to your mom? Is it serious? Don't worry, don't stress about work. The recent projects are all on track and progressing steadily—they don't absolutely require you to be there."
"Take care of her with peace of mind. Come back when things are settled."
He thoughtfully added, "I'll explain the situation to other colleagues at the company. Everyone will understand—whose family doesn't have emergencies? If you need help, just say the word."
A warm current flowed through my heart, dispelling some of the chill.
"Thank you, William, really thank you." My voice carried genuine gratitude.
"Don't mention it. Take care of yourself and your family," William said warmly.
After hanging up, I felt somewhat more at ease.
At least with work, I didn't need to worry, and could focus entirely on handling the situation at hand.
The surgery didn't take long. About an hour later, Mom was wheeled out.
The anesthesia hadn't completely worn off yet. Her face was a bit pale, eyes closed, but her breathing was steady.
The doctor said she was doing well and didn't need the ICU—she could go straight back to a regular ward for observation.
I followed the nurses as we wheeled Mom back to the original three-bed ward.
Watching the noise from visiting family members at neighboring beds, and the somewhat cramped and stuffy environment of the ward, I frowned.
Mom needed quiet rest.
I went to the nurses' station to ask if there were any better single or double rooms available for transfer.
The nurse on duty checked the computer and shook her head apologetically, "I'm sorry, Ms. Brown. The single and double rooms are all full right now. We've had a lot of patients admitted these past few days."
"Then please keep an eye out for me. If one becomes available, notify me right away. Thank you." I left my contact information.
"Okay, no problem," the nurse nodded in agreement.
Mom hadn't woken up yet. I checked the time and decided to go down to the first-floor pharmacy to pick up the post-operative medications the doctor had prescribed.
I took the elevator downstairs. The pharmacy was on the side of the first-floor lobby.
After getting the medicine, I carried the bag back, walking through the busy inpatient department lobby.
Amid the noisy voices, a female voice I knew extremely well, unbearably grating, suddenly pierced my ears.
It was Sarah.
I stopped in my tracks. Instead of turning around immediately, I instinctively lowered my hat brim, turned slightly to the side, and used my peripheral vision to scan toward where the voice was coming from.
Not far away, near the lobby entrance, Sarah was standing and talking with a slightly overweight middle-aged man.
That man was Tom, Sarah's uncle.
He was also the boss of that tourism company now operating under the Smith Group's name, the one who had stolen Mom's project.
Tom's face showed a complaining expression as he said to Sarah, "Why didn't you tell me earlier? George caught a cold that almost turned into pneumonia and he's hospitalized—I only heard about it through the grapevine. That looks so bad!"
Sarah wasn't dressed as elaborately today—a beige knit sweater with pants, her tone calm, "George didn't want me to say anything. He just didn't want a small cold to become public knowledge, making a big fuss. He thought it was unnecessary."
Tom rubbed his hands together, his face breaking into a smile, lowering his voice, but in the relatively open lobby entrance, it still carried over faintly, "George is my patron, my money tree. Now that he's hospitalized, I should come see him both out of sentiment and duty."
"My new company—if it weren't for him backing me up, how could it have climbed so fast?"
He raised the fruit basket he was carrying, his tone carrying some pride and flattery, "I know he doesn't like extravagance, so I just bought a basket of fruit. That's low-key enough, right?"