Too Late To Call Me Daughter

Cecilia’s POV

When I was having a heart attack, my family and my fiancé were at our casino, celebrating Eva’s first debut into the mafia world. I called each of them, desperate for a signature so the doctors could operate, but none of them answered.

My fiancé finally picked up, but he only told me to stop calling—that this was the most important night of Eva’s life, and if I could make calls, I could handle things myself.

So I signed the consent form with my own name. They thought my silence after that meant I had become obedient. They didn’t realize I was simply done—and already planning to leave them for good.

Today marked the fourth day I’d spent in the hospital, recovering from the PCI that saved my heart.

Since the surgery, I hadn’t called my family or my fiancé again. And they hadn’t called back either.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to reach out. But the way they had responded when I begged them to sign my surgical waiver days ago had already told me everything I needed to know.

They didn’t care enough. So why would I bother them again?

I’d taken care of myself these past few days. The hospital staff had been kind—almost overly gentle, as if they sensed my situation.

“Miss Thornwood,” Dr. May said when she walked in, “I’m happy to tell you your condition has improved. You’re cleared to go home and continue resting there.”

She hesitated, something flickering across her face. “Your family… they’re not coming to pick you up?”

I smiled softly and shook my head. “I can manage. Thank you for everything.”

There wasn’t much to pack—just a change of clothes and a small bag of essentials. I held them close as I walked out of the hospital doors alone.

The taxi wove through the busy New York streets. I watched the city blur past the window in silence, but my thoughts refused to settle.

How would my family and fiancé react when they saw me? Would I tell them I’d undergone major heart surgery? And most of all… would they be angry that I’d missed Eva’s debut party four days ago?

The first two questions had uncertain answers, but the last one didn’t.

I was certain they would be furious—maybe so furious they wouldn’t even wait to hear why I hadn’t been there.

The ride felt shorter than it should have. When the taxi stopped in front of the Thornwood mansion, I found myself hesitating on the sidewalk, staring up at the place that was supposed to be home.

After a moment, I pushed the door open.

All five of them—Mother, Father, my little brother Sebastian, Eva, and my fiancé, Adam—sat around the dinner table, glasses raised in a toast.

Adam was even holding Eva’s hand, smiling at her in a way that made them look like the couple.

I stood there in the doorway, suddenly feeling like a stranger who had walked into the wrong house.

“Look who’s finally here,” Sebastian said first, leaning back in his chair. “Too busy to come home until now?”

“Sebastian,” Mother warned sharply before turning her gaze to me, voice softening but still cold. “Where have you been? Didn’t you know Eva’s debut was this month?”

“I think she did it on purpose.” Father’s face flushed red almost instantly. “Cecilia Thornwood, I have raised you better than this. I can overlook you skipping out on ordinary days, but on Eva’s debut? You’ve shamed this entire family. Why must you always be so childish—so determined to do whatever you please?”

I had guessed right. First, they hadn’t cared enough to ask where I’d been. Second, they were far too angry to let me answer.

In their minds, I’d skipped the party on purpose. Because in their eyes, I was always the spoiled, foolish one—determined to humiliate Eva and, by extension, the entire family.

I could never compete with Eva—the clever, graceful girl who didn’t even share the Thornwood blood, yet somehow shone brighter than I ever had.

“You know how much this family depends on our connections with the other mafia families,” Father continued, rising from his seat. “And you dared to insult them like this. When will you learn to be as kind, as capable, as good as Eva? When will you grow up and start contributing instead of disgracing us?”

The old me would’ve shouted that I hadn’t done anything, would’ve cried and begged them to listen.

But now, I didn’t want to do anything except go back to my room and lie down.

So I turned without answering him and walked toward the stairs.

Mother quickly began to soothe Father, just as she always did, murmuring soft reassurances before hurrying after me.

“Now, don’t be upset with your father,” she said gently when she caught up. “You know he speaks harshly, but he has such high hopes for you.”

I turned to look at her. Mother was holding a champagne glass from their toast.

“Since you missed Eva’s debut,” She continued, lowering her voice, “Why not make a toast to her now? Your father would be pleased to see you getting along.”

Mother had always played the peacemaker. I could never tell whether she truly didn’t see the imbalance… or simply chose not to.

The “family” she spoke of, the “father” she defended, the “sister” she wanted me to get along with—none of them had ever really liked me.

And I remembered Dr. May’s voice clearly: Avoid anything that could affect your blood pressure or heart function. You’re in a very vulnerable state.

Even one sip could be dangerous.

I stared at the glass then at mother’s smile again. “Excuse me. I’m not in the mood for a toast.”

Father slammed his hand against the table, his face darkening. “What is wrong with your attitude? Eva and your mother didn’t even blame you for humiliating them and their party, and this is how you respond?”

I glanced at Mother. Her smile had gone stiff.

After a second, I reached out and took the glass from her hand.

I lifted it toward Eva. “Congratulations on your debut, Eva. You’ll do well in our world.”

Then I tipped the glass back and drank it in one swallow. The champagne burned more than it should have.

I handed the empty glass back to Mother. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I had surgery a few days ago. The doctor told me not to drink.”

Mother’s expression shifted instantly, nervousness flashing across her face. “Why didn’t you say so? I didn’t—”

Father cut in sharply, as if he had been waiting. “So now you want to make your mother feel bad? You disappeared without a word. How was she supposed to know you weren’t allowed to drink?”

Eva, ever the perfect daughter, softened her voice. “Mama, maybe Cece didn’t want to worry you about her surgery. That’s why she didn’t say anything.”

Then she turned to me, lifting her glass with a gentle smile. “Thank you for the toast, sis. I only wish you’d been at my party…”