Because I couldn't understand why Shawn wanted to commit suicide.
When I had three ribs broken and was locked in the pigsty, I didn't want to die. When I had my teeth knocked out for rebelling against the old bachelor at the east end of the village, I didn't want to die. Even if my adoptive parents didn't give me food for three days and three nights, I would drink rainwater, eat rats and do whatever it took to survive.
How could Shawn be scared to death by a dead rat? He should have stuffed the dead rat into those people's mouths, suffocating them!
But Sheryl wouldn't listen. She only wanted to kill me to avenge Shawn's death. In desperation, I kicked her in the stomach.
From then on, we had an irreconcilable feud. Years of suffering had instilled in me an extraordinary desire to survive. For me, staying alive was the most important thing in the world. When someone threatens my life, I would fight back without hesitation.
Like when my adoptive parents tried to beat me to death over 300,000 dollar in compensation. I called the police without hesitation and fled. Similarly, when Sheryl pushed me down the stairs, I, without a second thought, put rat poison in her food. Sheryl was sent for gastric lavage.
My father died in a car accident on the way to visit her in the hospital. My mother suffered another blow, becoming even more delirious and forced to seek treatment in a mental hospital. The Bridgerton Family was completely shattered. Sheryl hated me.
She gritted her teeth and said, "Sharon, just wait. When I inherit the Bridgerton Family fortune, I will definitely have you killed."
I know rich people could hire someone to kill someone. But I didn't want to die. I had no choice but to fight. In the end, the Bridgerton Family went bankrupt. Sheryl and I were left with nothing.
After seeing Shawn's painting, a hint of warmth finally appeared on Sheryl's stern face. But I knew it wasn't because of me. But no matter what, she finally sat down and looked at the last painting.
This painting was of me. Twenty-eight-year-old Sharon, holding her eight-year-old self. The date was May 19, 2022. It was the day I was diagnosed with cancer.
Not long after Sheryl went abroad to make a living, our mother also passed away. Before her death, she briefly regained her composure. She left Sheryl and me the savings she had saved for years. A savings account sufficient to provide us with food and clothing. A box of her favorite jewelry.
She stroked my cheek with her pale hand and smiled helplessly. "Sharon, I know none of this is your fault. Promise me one last thing: forgive your sister, okay?"
At that time, I didn't answer.
