Chapter 2

On the day Dad was moved to a regular ward, Juan brought over a care plan.

It was written in great detail. Dad's medication schedules, rehab schedules, dietary restrictions, even the caregiver's shifts were all listed there.

Juan placed the folder on the nightstand. "I asked someone to contact the director of rehabilitation. He'll come for a consultation tomorrow."

Dad had only just woken up. The corner of his mouth was still a little crooked, and his words were slurred. "Juan... Thank you. Too much trouble…for you…"

Juan bent slightly. "Don't worry about anything and rest."

He was flawless. He was proper and attentive, just like a good future son-in-law.

…If Whitney didn't exist.

At noon, Whitney came with a fruit basket. She wore a cream-colored dress. Her face was pale, and a hospital wristband was still around her wrist.

The moment she came in, she looked at Juan first. "Did I come at a bad time?"

Juan put down the glass of water in his hand. "You haven't recovered yet. Why are you here?"

Whitney lowered her head, her voice even lower. "I heard he's finally awake, and I felt guilty. If not for me that day, you wouldn't have..."

She stopped halfway, her eyes red.

My father didn't know what had happened and hurriedly waved his hand. "It's fine. Don't cry."

I stood by the window and watched her put the fruit basket on the table. Inside was a box of blueberries.

Dad couldn't eat them.

Juan glanced at it and explained it on her behalf. "Whitney simply meant well."

I picked up the fruit basket and handed it to the caregiver by the door. "Please, share this with the nurses at their station."

Whitney's expression froze for a second. "Vivian, are you still mad at me?"

Juan looked at me. The look was nothing but a glance, but it was also a warning.

"Don't embarrass her."

I used to fear that look more than anything. I was worried he would think I was immature, and that I was making a fuss over nothing. I had endured it so many times.

When Whitney had a fever in the middle of the night, he abandoned our anniversary dinner.

When Whitney said she was afraid of thunder, he drove across half of Harbor City to keep her company.

When Whitney said, "I'm not used to unfamiliar doctors," he personally arranged therapy for her.

But when I was in the emergency room on an IV because of stomach pain, he only replied with three words.

"Follow medical advice."

I looked at Whitney and said calmly, "I'm not mad at you."

She froze.

Juan also raised his eyes.

I continued, "It's your choice to go to him when something happens. It's his choice to go every time."

The ward went silent.

Whitney bit her lip. "Vivian, I feel awful when you say it like that."

Juan finally spoke. "Enough, Vivian."

His voice wasn't harsh, but it was enough to make Dad look at me.

"Whitney isn't in good health. Don't hurt her with your words." He frowned weakly. "Vivian, don't be stubborn."

My fingertips curled slightly.

So even Dad thought I was being stubborn.

After that, Juan pulled me into the corridor. His fingers closed around my wrist. It wasn't strong, but I couldn't break free all the same.

"Your dad just woke up. Did you have to make trouble in the ward?"

I looked into his eyes. "What did I do?"

"Whitney already apologized," Juan said.

"She apologized so everyone would know she's the one who deserves pity," I said.

Juan's face darkened. "Vivian, you weren't this harsh before."

Of course I wasn't.

In the past, I would find excuses for him. I would tell myself that he was just being too responsible, that he simply couldn't bear to see Whitney break down.

And yet, the light outside the emergency room had shone all night. Some things had become too evident beneath it.

Whitney came out of the ward, leaning against the wall as if she might collapse at any moment. "Juan, my head is a little dizzy."

Juan immediately let go of me and walked to her. He put an arm around her shoulders, and his voice lowered. "I'll take you home."

Then he looked back at me. "Stay here and take care of your dad. Call me if anything happens."

I looked at his hand on Whitney's shoulder, then asked, "If I call, will you answer?"

Juan's brow tightened.

Whitney leaned against his arm and said softly, "Vivian, don't make this hard for him."

I nodded. "Sure."

Juan seemed relieved as he helped Whitney and left together.

When the elevator doors closed at the end of the corridor, I lowered my head and saw the red marks his grip had left on my wrist.

They were very faint.

They would disappear soon, just like the hurt I had carried for years.

No one saw it, and no one cared.