Three days later was my birthday.
A month ago, Uncle Homer and Group President Oliver, began submitting the annual financial report and departmental personnel updates to me.
I had originally planned to surprise him by confessing at the birthday party, but now it seemed he didn’t have the patience.
“I can’t help you with that,” I said and closed the photo album, my voice as calm as a still pool of water.
“You!” He was completely furious. He reached out to overturn the table, but stopped abruptly when he saw Anastasia’s urn on it. Then, like a broken jar, he pointed at the door and yelled, “Get out! Get out of this house!”
I bent down and picked up Anastasia’s belongings. Inside were her unfinished cookies and a crooked family portrait she’d drawn—her father was just a blurry silhouette.
As I reached the door, my phone rang. It was Homer.
“Miss,” he said hesitantly, “Godfrey’s investigation... are we really going to continue? He’s your husband, after all.”
The wind from the hallway blew in, ruffling my hair across my forehead.
I stared at my reflection in the elevator, tears in my eyes, only a frozen coldness.
“Uncle Homer,” I said softly, each word clear and distinct, “Business is business.”
The moment the elevator door closed, I thought I heard something shattering inside.
But that no longer mattered. From the moment he deliberately took the detour, from the moment he said, “It's a relief,” this man was already dead...
The hotel room our assistant had booked faced south. The sunlight fell on Anastasia’s small pillowcase, casting a warm, pale yellow glow.
I was staring blankly at that warm glow when my phone rang. Laurel’s voice, amplified with a deliberately weak tone, emerged from the receiver:
“Jessica... Mom’s dying... She’s in the hospital awaiting surgery... Come see me one last time…”
My heart suddenly clenched.
Even though she could be so mean, the words “Mom” and “dying” still made me panic.
I grabbed my bag and rushed out. My assistant called from behind, “Miss, do you want a driver?” I waved my hand, the only word on my mind being “hospital.”
The private hospital’s VIP ward was on the 18th floor. As the elevator doors opened, I ran into Cassandra, emerging, holding a glass of water.
Seeing me, the concern on her face instantly gave way to a smug smile. She stepped aside to let me in. “Jessica, are you here? Auntie just woke up and hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
In the ward, Laurel, half leaning against the headboard, her face flushed, was about to accept the apple offered by Cassandra. She barely glanced at me as I entered. “You’re finally here, empty-handed?”
On the bedside table were flowers and a fruit basket, clearly brought by Cassandra.
I didn’t respond, my gaze scanning the medical record on the bedside table—laparoscopic appendectomy, day one post-op.
When I received the call, I immediately called the director. This hospital was a high-end branch of a group.
The director personally arranged for the best surgeon and the surgery was scheduled in less than ten minutes.
When I arrived, the surgery had just concluded and the nurse said, “The patient is doing very well. Minimally invasive surgery is recovering quickly.”
It turned out that “almost dying” meant that she needed praise after minimally invasive surgery.
“Thanks to Cassandra,” Laurel said and took a bite of her apple, her voice resonant and uncharacteristically patient. “She’s busy running around, taking care of the paperwork and even wiping me down and giving me water. She’s more attentive than my own daughter. Unlike some people who just stand around.”
Cassandra lowered her head and looked embarrassed, but gently patted the back of Laurel’s hand.
“Auntie, don’t say that. This is what I’m supposed to do.”
“Your job?” Laurel’s eyes lit up. She suddenly grabbed Cassandra’s hand and raised her chin towards me.
