It was Christmas Eve, and I was temporarily called in to cover for a colleague at the blood draw station. Suddenly, a little girl cut into the line, her accompanying middle-aged father, masked, quietly urged, “Excuse us, my daughter’s in a hurry.” Seeing no one behind objected, I proceeded to verify their information. “Is this the bone marrow matching sample for Zoe Davies?” The girl obediently extended her arm, but the man suddenly reached out, blocking the needle. “Wait, we’re not doing it today.” I cursed him in my head, but when I looked up, they were already walking away, leaving the consent form on the counter. The guardian’s signature, “David Miller,” stared back at me. That was my dad’s name, and I recognized his handwriting. I pulled out my phone, my fingers stiff with cold. “Dad, are you working at the office today?” A hospital-specific PA announcement echoed from the other end of the line. He paused for three seconds. “…Yes, I’m at the office.” I remained silent. After hanging up, I accessed the hospital system backend and typed in Zoe Davies’ name. “Patient: Zoe Davies. Matching recipient: David Miller. Relationship: Father-Daughter.”
“Nurse? Are you going to continue?” An old man in line behind me impatiently poked his head forward. I snapped back to reality, realizing my knuckles, pressed against the counter, were white. “Apologies, just a moment.” I forced myself to finish the remaining work, my mind replaying Dad’s words. As soon as my shift ended, I rushed into the locker room, locked the door, and only then dared to take out the paper again. “Patient: Zoe Davies, Age: 6, Diagnosis: Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.” “Matching Recipient: David Miller. Relationship: Father-Daughter.” “Father-Daughter.” Those two words seared my eyes. I pulled out my phone and opened the hospital’s internal system, typing in “Zoe Davies’” name. A more detailed medical record page popped up. The earliest visit was nine months ago. The most recent was three days prior, an outpatient visit where a new round of chemotherapy drugs was prescribed. The contact phone number field listed an unfamiliar mobile number. The address was: Willow Creek Residences, Building 1, Apartment 602. This wasn’t our family’s address, nor was it Dad’s company apartment. I stared at the address, racking my brain. Nine months ago was precisely when Dad started his frequent “overtime” and “business trips.” Mom even felt sorry for him, saying the company had many projects that year, and I should bother him less. I opened my navigation app and typed in the address. 8.5 kilometers from the hospital, a mid-range apartment complex called Willow Creek Residences. I don’t know how I walked out of the hospital building, but I hailed a taxi. “Driver, to Willow Street, Willow Creek Residences.” On the way, I clutched the consent form in my pocket, my hands clasped in silent prayer that my worst fears wouldn’t come true. I arrived at the complex, pulled up my mask, and hid behind a large maple tree to the side. Just as I was about to freeze, starting to wonder if I had the wrong place or if this was all a ridiculous misunderstanding, a figure too familiar for comfort appeared in the complex. It was Dad. He went upstairs and appeared in a window on an upper floor. He bent down, his silhouette clear. He was stroking the little girl’s head. So gently, so tenderly. When I was little and had a fever, he would touch my forehead like that. But in recent years, such touches grew rare. He was always busy, and his head rubs became perfunctory, quick pats, his attention always seemingly elsewhere. It turned out his tenderness and time hadn’t disappeared. They were just given to someone else. I held back tears, raised my phone, my hand trembling slightly, but I still managed to capture that window, those three figures huddled together. I don’t know how long I stood under that tree. The window lights went out eventually, but my father never came out. It seemed Dad wouldn’t be coming home tonight. Thinking of Mom still waiting at home for Christmas Eve dinner. I dragged my numb legs out of the complex. On the way home, I tried to compose myself, attempting to make my expression look normal. “Alice, you’re back?” My mom, wearing an apron, peered out from the kitchen, a smile on her face. “Perfect, I just finished preparing dinner. Your dad just SnapChatted that something came up at the office and he’ll be late again this year, told us to eat first.” I opened my mouth, wanting to tell her the truth. But my throat felt completely constricted. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing the truth that was about to burst out. “I’m going to wash my hands.” Turning towards the bathroom, my tears finally broke free. I turned on the faucet, letting the sound of the running water mask my sobs. At the dinner table, I tentatively asked Mom, “Is Dad really that busy with work? Not even a break for the holidays.” “I understand. Work is important.” I lowered my head, chewing the pasta in my mouth forcefully, but tasted nothing. My stomach felt like it was filled with ice. I couldn’t wait any longer. On the last day of my holiday, I arrived at the hospital early. I casually chatted with the nurses in the hematology ward. “Busy lately, huh? Can’t even get peace during the holidays.” “Tell me about it, especially those high-risk leukemia kids; treatment can’t stop. There’s a little girl named Zoe, only six, poor thing.” My heart clenched sharply. “Zoe? That’s a unique name.” “It is. She’s also adorable, and her dad is very dedicated. He comes almost every day, stays with her through treatment, coaxes her to take medicine, sometimes he stays all night. Dads like that are rare these days.” “They are…” I murmured, my throat dry.
Coming every day. Staying all night. Running around for her. These words were like fine grains of salt scattered on my heart. I remembered my appendectomy, how I cried out in pain, wanting Dad to hold me. But he was away on a “project inspection,” and it was Mom and Uncle who stayed with me for three days. When I was struggling with insomnia due to stress during my final exams in high school, he would only say, “Don’t overthink it, just do your best,” and then go back to his work in the study. He wasn’t incapable of giving, nor did he lack time. I decided to get one step closer to that other family. I put on casual clothes and a beanie, covering most of my face. In my hand, I carried a stack of prepared survey forms and brochures. She saw me and paused, startled. “You are…?” “Hello, sorry to bother you.” I tried to make my voice sound steady, even a little shy, like a student. “I’m a volunteer from the local Red Cross chapter. Excuse me, is this where Zoe Davies lives?” Hearing Zoe Davies’ name, her guarded look softened slightly. “We’ve received information about some families in need from the City Children’s Hospital’s Hematology Department. We’re very concerned about Zoe Davies’ situation.” She hesitated for a few seconds, then stepped aside. I took a deep breath and walked into another home. My gaze was immediately drawn to a large framed photo hanging on the central wall of the living room. “That’s my husband and daughter.” I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself to stay clear-headed and maintain my expression. Just as I was about to probe further, the sound of a key turning in the lock suddenly echoed from the front door! David Miller stood at the doorway, carrying an insulated food container. “Grace, I made some fish soup for Zoe to help her get her strength back…” I sprang to my feet, pulling up my mask, and made to leave. “Sorry, something urgent just came up! I’ll leave these materials with you. You can call the number on them if you have any questions!” I pulled down my beanie, stumbled out of the complex, and gasped for air. After some time, my phone vibrated in my pocket. “Alice, your shift must be almost over, right? What do you want for dinner tonight? Your dad just called and said he might be late again tonight, has an unavoidable engagement. Shall we just eat something simple, just the two of us?” “Late again!” My last nerve snapped. “Mom! Dad is seeing someone else!” Mom didn’t say anything, just told me to come home. When I got home, Mom was sitting on the sofa, as calm as if nothing had happened. She pulled out her phone and showed me a SnapChat message. “Your husband has another home at Willow Creek Residences; his daughter is six years old.” “I didn’t want to believe it,” Mom’s voice trembled slightly, as if she were talking about someone else’s life. “Your dad, he has many flaws. He’s lazy, stubborn, sometimes he doesn’t keep his word. But… for twenty years, I thought, at least he had a bottom line. I secretly checked his phone, the lock screen password was still your birthday, the chat history was clean, and the bank statements showed nothing unusual. I even wondered if someone sent it by mistake or if it was malicious slander.” My last emotional defense collapsed. I pulled out the consent form from my pocket. Then I took out my phone and showed her the pictures. “Mom! Look closely, Dad is seeing someone else!” I took Mom and hailed a taxi to that hospital room. But from inside, suppressed sobs from a woman and a man’s low growl could be heard. Just as I was about to push the door open, it was suddenly pulled open. Dad, his face ashen, walked out and collided with me. When he saw me, his pupils constricted, and a flash of panic crossed his face, quickly replaced by feigned anger. “What are you doing here?” “That’s what I should be asking you, Dad. Didn’t you say you had an important meeting at the office today?” The murmuring patients, family members, and medical staff around us all turned their gazes our way. Dad’s face flushed crimson, then turned ashen again. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong, almost dragging me into the nearby fire escape stairwell. “Alice Miller! What are you trying to do?!” he snarled, a vein throbbing in his temple. I pulled out my phone, opened my gallery, and swiped through the intimate photos of him and Grace Davies, one by one.
His shoulders slumped, and his voice softened, pleading: “Alice, Alice, listen to me… Dad was just confused for a moment… I was really just confused! I’m sorry to your mom, I’m sorry to you… But things are already like this, Zoe is so young, and she’s so sick… She needs her dad, she needs money for treatment… Your mom isn’t well, and she’s strong-willed, she definitely wouldn’t be able to handle it if she found out! Alice, please keep it a secret for Dad, okay? Dad promises, I’ll make it up to you two properly in the future, just don’t tell your mom, I’m begging you…” I stopped looking at him, turned, and pulled open the stairwell door. Outside, Mom was standing there, I don’t know how long she’d been there. Dad’s legs buckled, and he sank to his knees. “Sarah, Sarah, let me explain…” Mom didn’t look at Dad; she just took my hand. “Alice, let’s go home.” “Mom…” I began cautiously in the car. “Alice,” she cut me off, her voice soft but exceptionally clear. “When your dad knelt down, I wondered what kind of person I had truly known for these past twenty years.” “Then I thought about that child, Zoe, only six years old, diagnosed with leukemia.” My heart sank. “Mom, what do you mean?” “The child is innocent.” Mom’s words were like a needle, piercing my most sensitive nerve. “What about me?! Am I not innocent? For these twenty years, isn’t *our* family innocent? Mom, Dad lied to us! He has two families! That child… that child is his evidence!” “I know. I know all of it. But Alice, that child is dying.” “So what?” “So we’re supposed to be saints, give our money and resources to save his and the other woman’s child? Mom, wake up! When he begged me to keep it a secret from you, he only thought of himself and that child! He never considered how much you’d suffer if you found out!” “If he had considered me, none of this would have happened in the first place.” Mom looked up, a terrifying resolve in her eyes that I’d never seen before. “Alice, I will work with your dad to save that child. As for your dad and me,” she paused, “we’ll talk about it once that child’s condition is stable.” I stared at Mom in disbelief, as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re crazy!” I grabbed my bag and signaled the driver to stop. “If you want to be a saint, go ahead! I don’t want to see either of them again!” I sat down on a stone bench, quietly sobbing. I even wondered if I was wrong? I pulled out my phone and called my boyfriend, Ethan Hayes. “Ethan,” I choked out, almost incoherent. “My dad… my mom… they’ve all gone crazy… Are you home? Can I come over?” “I’m home. Take your time, don’t rush, I’ll wait for you.” Half an hour later, I knocked on Ethan’s apartment door. I poured out everything that had happened that day, from the confrontation at the hospital to my mother’s shocking decision. Ethan listened quietly, his brow gradually furrowing. “So, your mom’s saying, save the person first, then deal with right and wrong.” “That’s not even about right and wrong!” I sprang up from the sofa, agitated. “Ethan, why are you saying that too? That’s his mistress’s child!” Ethan was silent for a moment. He then took out a file folder. “Alice, there’s something your mom didn’t want me to tell you. For the past eight months, your mother has been secretly commissioning me to investigate your father.” Ethan’s voice was low. “She started to suspect something was wrong about nine months ago, but she had no evidence. She asked me to investigate your father’s itinerary, spending records, communication links…” I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning, frozen on the spot. Nine months ago… that was precisely when Dad started his frequent “overtime,” and also Zoe’s earliest medical visit. “Why… why did you keep it from me?” My voice trembled. “She said you were still young, and with your job at the hospital, you were already under a lot of stress. She didn’t want you to be distracted.” “She said today she’d use ‘her half’ of the money to save Zoe,” I looked at Ethan, and he nodded, confirming my guess.
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