The Heart That Was Owed

The applications were ranked by the amount of money offered. The fact that Ivy Clement's name appeared at the very top meant that my biological father, Sylvester Walsh, had put up a staggering sum.

Even so, I crossed her name out without hesitation.

She had stolen my mother's heart and used it for all these years.

It was time to give it back.

My assistant, Leah, took the list from me and stared at it for a moment. "Dr. Walsh, C&W Co. has allocated one billion dollars as research funding for us. It'll be distributed over ten years, which means a hundred million every year. If we accept this deal, not only will we never have to worry about funding again, but we could also double the number of patients we provide free treatment to every year…"

I looked at Leah. Her voice gradually grew quieter under my gaze.

Ten years.

It had been ten years since my mother died.

My eyes fell on the framed photograph on my desk. The original picture had been of the three of us, but I had torn it in half. All that remained was a woman holding a child in her arms, smiling brightly.

"Don't worry about the funding. I've got it handled, but this application is permanently rejected."

Leah looked confused.

Ever since the artificial heart was introduced, I had set one rule: every year, a portion of our research funding would be set aside to provide free treatment for young people suffering from heart disease.

Accepting C&W Co.'s offer would allow us to save countless more lives.

But I still refused.

Seeing that I was not going to change my mind, Leah cautiously asked, "Shall I reject C&W Co. then?"

"Yes."

She left my office, looking back at me three times before she finally disappeared from view.

Then, I watched the number of people on the blacklist in the system change from zero to one.

Leah had been with me since the very beginning of the project and had stayed by my side all these years. However, she did not know that the rule was my way of doing something good for my mother in the afterlife.

I had devoted myself to developing the artificial heart because I never wanted another tragedy like my mother's to happen again.

My mother had been only 38 when she died.

That day, I had just received my SAT results and was lying on the bed with my mother, discussing which universities I should apply to.

But my father took her away while I was asleep, and it was not until the next day, after the surgery was over, that I woke up to learn that my aunt would continue to live, while my mother had been reduced to ashes.

I had not even gotten to see her one last time.

Instead, I saw my aunt.

When she woke up, I watched my father rush to her side, clutching her hand and weeping with joy.

My aunt told me that from then on, she would take good care of me in my mother's place.

But she was not my mother.

And I would never have a mother again.

After I learned the truth, I left home and changed my university application to medicine.

From that day onward, I devoured one thick, heavy textbook after another. I studied cadaveric hearts again and again. Every morning, I went to the study room as soon as the sun came up, and whenever I woke, I went straight to the library.

That was my life for eight years.

By the time I graduated, I had already developed the artificial heart. It took another two years to take it from research and development to actual clinical use.

Ten years.

I had not seen any of them again in all that time—not until now.

I returned to my seat and sat down in front of my computer. The new patient files had already been reorganized and sent to my email, but for some reason, I opened the old file instead.

The page that appeared on the screen showed a woman's face strikingly similar to the mother I remembered.

Tears immediately spilled from my eyes.

My phone rang.

After knocking twice, Leah hurried anxiously into my office. "Dr. Walsh, C&W Co. wants to speak with you. I don't know how they got your number, and I couldn't stop them…"

I looked at the vibrating phone and brushed away my tears with my fingertip. "It's fine."

Ten years had passed.

"We should have a proper chat."