“I've already made the porridge. Eat it or don't. I'm leaving."
Ignoring her, I turned to walk out, but just as I reached the doorway, a sharp force slammed into my back. Anya had shoved me with all her strength, sending me sprawling onto the floor. The pain shot through my arms as I instinctively tried to break my fall.
Before I could get up, a foot pressed down on my spine, pinning me in place.
"You bitch!" Anya snarled, grinding her heel against my back. "How dare you give me that attitude? My brother doesn't even want you anymore—what the hell are you acting so high and mighty for?"
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. But I knew better than to retaliate. Anya thrived on provoking me and I couldn't afford to give Franklin any more excuses to punish me.
"If you know what's good for you, hurry up and divorce my brother and get the hell out of this house!" she spat, her voice dripping with malice.
I felt her foot lift and for a fleeting second, I thought she was done. But then, without warning, she kicked me hard in the ribs. A searing pain ripped through my side, forcing a gasp from my lips. I curled up, clutching my stomach as warm liquid seeped through my hospital gown. Blood. My wound had reopened.
Anya took a step back, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Somebody, come and throw her out! She's filthy!"
Dragging myself to my feet, I staggered out of the house, gripping the wall for support. My vision blurred from the pain, but I didn't stop until I was far enough away. I told myself that this was it. Anya had her victory. Maybe now, she would finally leave me alone.
But I had underestimated her cruelty.
The very next day, as I lay in my hospital bed, my phone rang. Franklin's name flashed across the screen. My heart pounded as I hesitated before answering.
"Quincy, you vicious woman!" His voice was laced with fury. "Why are you so jealous and spiteful? I only asked you to make some porridge, but you poured boiling hot porridge all over Anya!"
My mind went blank. "What? I didn't—"
"I must've gone too easy on you. This time, you forced my hand."
"What are you going to do, Franklin? I didn't throw porridge at Anya! I didn't! Please, believe me!" My hands trembled as I clutched the phone, desperation clawing at my throat.
But my voice was drowned out by Anya's soft sobbing in the background.
"Franklin, don't be mad at Quincy. It's my fault. I shouldn't have asked her to make porridge for me. She was just angry..."
I could barely breathe. I didn't know if Franklin even heard my pleas before the call ended abruptly. I called him back again and again, but each attempt met the same result—his phone was turned off.
Panicked, I called home instead. The housekeeper picked up and informed me that Franklin had taken Anya to the hospital. I sent him messages explaining the truth, but he never replied.
As dusk approached, I called my father, my only source of comfort. His voice, though weary, was steady. He even chuckled, reminding me gently, "Quincy, make sure you eat well, okay?"
Hearing him treat me like a child made me smile despite the weight in my chest. "I will, Dad. You have to eat well too."
But two days later, my world collapsed.
My father had jumped off the hospital roof.
The moment I heard the news, I tore the IV from my arm and ran from my ward, ignoring the nurse who tried to stop me. My legs carried me as fast as they could to my father's hospital. The attending doctor, his face solemn, handed me a folded piece of paper.
"Miss Quincy... I'm sorry. In a way, maybe it's better that your father is at peace now. He was in so much pain these past few days. Especially the last three days—he wasn't receiving his special medication anymore... He just couldn't endure it any longer."
My breath caught in my throat. "Three days?"
That meant... whether or not I had gone back to make that porridge, Franklin had already decided to cut off my father's medication.
That was my father's life.
Had all of Franklin's words about understanding pancreatic cancer been nothing but lies? He had always spoken so sympathetically, as if he truly understood my father's suffering. But in the end, my father's life meant nothing to him. Less than Anya's fabricated grievances.
My fingers trembled as I unfolded the letter. My father's handwriting, once strong and confident, was now shaky and frail.
[Quincy, from now on, live as you truly wish.]
I didn't understand why he would say that.
My hands clenched around the letter, my nails pressing into the thin paper. I stood there, staring at the lifeless body of the man who had once been my pillar, now lying cold on a stretcher. My chest caved in and the pain was unbearable.
My father was gone.
On the day of his cremation, I didn't inform Franklin. I didn't want him there. But somehow, he found out. Just as the ceremony ended, he rushed to the crematorium.
"Why didn't you tell me about something this important?"
I said nothing. The ashes had already settled and so had my heart.
After ceremony, I finally turned to face Franklin. And I asked him a single question.
