1 On the day we moved into our new house, I made sure to reserve the ground-floor master bedroom with the wheelchair ramp for my father, whose legs were failing him. But the movers only told me after they arrived that the ground floor had already been taken by Lauren’s former father-in-law, Mr. Gable. My father was relegated to the fourth-floor guest room in a building with no elevator. Clutching his cane, he had to climb the stairs step by painful step, stopping to gasp for air at every landing. I called Lauren immediately. Her only response was, “The top floor gets better sunlight. Stop being so dramatic.” Yet just moments earlier, I had watched her bend down to install a motion-sensor nightlight by Mr. Gable’s bedroom door, because she was terrified the old man might trip in the dark. When my father finally reached the fourth floor, he leaned heavily against the doorframe and forced a smile. “Son, it’s nice and bright up here. I like it.” His pant leg was still rolled up, revealing a nasty purple bruise swelling on his calf. I looked down at the empty ramp downstairs and felt a sudden, sickening realization: I didn’t want to spend another day in this house. I quietly closed the bedroom door on the fourth floor, the cold sweat from my father’s forehead still lingering on my palm. He had taken his painkillers and lay on his side, his cane resting against the bed, barely hiding the dark bruise on his leg. When I went downstairs, the pristine wheelchair ramp looked painfully bright under the hallway lights, its handrails newly wrapped in non-slip tape. The kitchen door was slightly open. Lauren had rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse and was carefully skimming the fat off a simmering pot of broth. She was making her famous wild herb and chicken stew, while soft pastries sat on the dining table, all of Mr. Gable’s favorites. I leaned against the doorframe, my voice barely a whisper. “Lauren, why didn’t you tell me you gave the ground-floor bedroom to Mr. Gable?” She didn’t even turn around, pouring the skimmed fat into a small bowl. “Is a minor moving detail really worth starting a fight over right now?” “My father has three steel plates in his leg. He had to climb four flights of stairs today, and he’s in too much pain to even touch his dinner.” Lauren turned down the burner, her voice infuriatingly calm. “Mr. Gable’s doctor warned him about early signs of a stroke last week. He shouldn’t exert himself. He’s all alone now that his son is gone. What’s wrong with me looking after him?” “And what about my father? He can barely walk. You saw that yourself.” She finally faced me, her brow furrowing. “Your father has you to look after him every single day. Who does Mr. Gable have? His son passed away, and as his former daughter-in-law, I have a moral obligation to care for him.” “A moral obligation?” I pulled up the original blueprints on my phone and shoved them in front of her. “This ground-floor room was custom-designed for my dad from day one. The ramp, the handrails, the shower bench… everything was built to his measurements.” Lauren barely glanced at it. “The fourth floor gets great sunlight, which is actually good for arthritis. Stop being so petty.” My fingers went numb with anger. “We are swapping the rooms back tomorrow.” She clattered the ladle against the marble countertop. Wiping her hands, she walked slowly toward me, stopping just inches away. “Mr. Gable cannot handle stress. If you make a scene in front of him and trigger his heart condition, don’t expect me to spare your feelings.” “Are you threatening me?” She grabbed my wrist, not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to keep me from pulling away. “John, we can handle a little discomfort within the family. But outsiders are watching how we treat those in need. Don’t humiliate me.” “So my father is just supposed to suffer?” “If that’s how you want to see it, I can’t stop you.” She let go of me, picked up the bowl of hot broth, and her voice softened. “I’m going to take this to Mr. Gable. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately.” She brushed past me, carrying the faint scent of lavender incense, the kind Mr. Gable always burned in his room to calm his nerves. Standing alone in the kitchen, a sudden wave of nausea hit me. I gripped the refrigerator door, my hand pressing hard against my stomach. My phone buzzed in my pocket, displaying a follow-up reminder from the hospital. Mr. John, your severe gastric ulcer has worsened to a critical perforation risk. Please schedule your follow-up immediately to prepare for surgery. I stared at the text, remembering how I had planned to tell her tonight about my deteriorating health. From the ground floor, Mr. Gable’s fragile voice drifted up. “Lauren, dear, you’re spoiling me. John won’t be upset, will he?” Lauren replied in a soothing tone, “He’s just acting like a child. He’ll get over it.” I locked my phone, but the sharp, stabbing pain in my stomach refused to fade. Outside, Mr. Gable chuckled, saying, “An old skeleton like me doesn’t deserve such a beautiful room.” Lauren’s response was tender. “You deserve the best. Don’t worry about a thing.” I leaned heavily against the fridge, my fists clenching until my knuckles turned white. The next morning, a torrential downpour slammed against the windows. Lauren, who had promised to drive us to the hospital, was nowhere to be found, and her car was gone. My father stood in the foyer, leaning on his cane and trying to hide his pain as he defended her. “Lauren is a busy woman. A cab will do just fine.” I stared at my phone, where a text from her had just popped up. Mr. Gable was craving those sourdough pastries from the West End bakery, so I’m in line to get some. Grab an Uber. I dialed her number. It rang for a long time before she picked up, the background filled with the chatter of a crowded bakery. “Lauren, you promised to take my dad to his orthopedic appointment today. His leg was throbbing all night, and in this storm, we can’t find a ride.” She sounded annoyed. “I’ve been in this line for an hour. If I leave now, it’s a waste of time. Just call a premium ride. I’ll cover the cost, okay?” “There are over a hundred people in the queue for premium rides. No one is picking up in this weather!” “John, stop being so dramatic over nothing. You’re an adult. You don’t need your hand held for a doctor’s visit.” My father gently tugged at my sleeve, his face pale. “Don’t argue, son. I can walk slowly.” I hung up and borrowed a large umbrella from the front desk. Rain lashed against the canopy, and with every step my father took, the rubber tip of his cane slipped on the wet pavement. I held the umbrella in one hand and gripped his arm with the other. “Dad, lean on me. Don’t try to carry your own weight.” He gasped for breath, still forcing a smile. “I’m fine, son. Back in the day, I worked the fields with this leg. I can make it.” The bus stop was only three hundred yards outside the residential gate, but today, it felt like miles. As we approached a deep puddle, my father suddenly pulled his arm away from mine. “You’re sick… don’t push yourself. I can cross this on my own.” My heart stopped. “Dad, you know?” He looked down at my bag. “Your medical report was sticking out yesterday. I didn’t ask because I wanted to wait until you were ready to tell me.” My eyes welled up, but before I could speak, the tip of his cane slid on the slick asphalt. My father crashed heavily onto the concrete curb, his cane clattering into the street. “Dad!” I threw myself down to pull him up, but the sudden strain sent a white-hot agony ripping through my stomach. My father gasped in pain, cold sweat pouring down his face, yet he used his weak grip to push my hands away. “Don’t lift me. Don’t move. Call an ambulance. Hurry.” I knelt in the muddy water, desperately waving at passing cars, but they only splashed us as they sped by. With trembling fingers, I dialed 911. Just as I finished giving our location, a notification popped up at the top of my screen. It was an update from Mr. Gable’s social media. The photo showed a plate of steaming, golden-brown pastries. Next to the teacup, Lauren’s manicured, spotless hand was visible. The caption read: My own son might be gone, but this wonderful girl is sweeter than any daughter I could have asked for. Truly blessed. I stared at the screen, digging my fingernails into my palms. By the time the ambulance arrived, my father was too weak to speak. The paramedics loaded him onto the stretcher, the medic frowning at me. “Why was he out walking in this weather? A fall like this is catastrophic for a leg in his condition.” I choked on my words, only able to whisper, “Please, just hurry.” At the hospital, the orthopedic surgeon’s face darkened as he reviewed the X-rays. “The steel plates have shifted, and there’s severe inflammation. Has he been climbing stairs recently?” My father looked down, his voice barely audible. “We just moved into a new place. The stairs are a bit steep.” The doctor looked at me. “He needs absolute bed rest. He must use a wheelchair from now on. No more stairs.” I nodded numbly. I went to the billing office and emptied my personal savings account to pay the deposit, then rented a cheap, second-hand wheelchair. As we wheeled out of the clinic, Lauren’s call finally came through. Her voice was flat. “Did you guys make it to the hospital? Mr. Gable felt a bit dizzy after breakfast, so I’ll be home late.” I looked down at my father’s damp, ruined pants. “Lauren, my dad fell.” There was a brief silence. “Is it bad?” Before I could answer, Mr. Gable’s coughing echoed from her end. Lauren immediately lowered her voice. “I have to go. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ll talk when I get home.” The line went dead. My father cradled his bent cane in his arms, looking up at me quietly. “John, is that ramp at home really out of the question for me now?” My hands froze on the wheelchair handles. The cold rain seeped down my collar, freezing me to the bone. It was evening by the time we returned. The doctor had made it clear that my father could not climb stairs, so I was determined to demand the ground-floor bedroom, even if it meant a screaming match. But when I pushed the door open, a burst of laughter hit us. Balloons, flower baskets, and a massive seafood spread covered the dining table. Mr. Gable sat at the head of the table in a custom velvet suit, a gold boutonniere pinned to his chest, grinning broadly. A three-tier cake stood nearby with the words: Happy 60th Birthday to my beloved Godfather. Lauren emerged from the crowd. Seeing my father in the wheelchair, she merely frowned. “What happened to you? Why can’t you be more careful?” I gripped the wheelchair handles, my voice freezing over. “He fell in the pouring rain trying to get to his doctor’s appointment, the one you were supposed to drive him to.” Lauren glanced at the guests and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “Today is Mr. Gable’s sixtieth birthday. We’re hosting a celebration to mark our godfather-godson bond. Everyone is here to celebrate. Don’t ruin the mood with your attitude.” Mr. Gable quickly stood up, leaning against the table. “John, please don’t blame Lauren. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have allowed them to throw such a big party for an old man like me.” Despite his feigned humility, the massive emerald signet ring on his thumb flashed ostentatiously under the chandelier. My father gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, took in the room full of strangers, and forced a raspy whisper through his pain. “John, I’m tired. Ask the building staff to help carry me back to the fourth floor. Let’s not ruin their celebration.” The building staff sighed and carefully carried the wheelchair up the stairs, my father’s face slick with sweat from the sheer agony of the movement. I stared at his bloodless lips, a suffocating ache tightening in my chest. Once the staff left, I walked over to the ground-floor bedroom. A new nameplate hung on the door: Mr. Gable’s Suite. Inside sat a brand-new massage chair, a heated therapeutic mattress, an emergency call button by the headboard, and the bathroom threshold had been shaved down completely. This was the exact room I had meticulously planned for my own father. I walked over to the birthday cake, my fingers grabbing the edge of the tablecloth. Lauren noticed my expression and hissed, “John, don’t you dare. We have guests.” I stared at the word “Godfather” written in frosting and pulled the cloth with all my might. Plates, wine glasses, and the three-tier cake crashed to the floor, splattering frosting all over Mr. Gable’s trousers. The room fell into a dead silence. Mr. Gable clutched his chest, sinking backward into his chair. “Lauren, I can’t breathe.” His relatives swarmed him. “What kind of monster are you? Ruining an old man’s birthday like this!” Lauren’s face turned white with rage. She marched over, grabbed my shoulder, and shoved me away from the table. My back slammed against the doorframe, and a violent spasm seized my stomach. “John, have you lost your mind?” she spat. “Your father’s fall was his own fault for being clumsy. Why are you taking it out on Mr. Gable?” I stared at her. “Say that again.” Lauren’s lips thinned. “It’s his birthday, and he can’t handle this kind of shock. Apologize to him.” I let out a dry laugh. “Apologize?” Before the word could fully leave my mouth, a sharp, tearing pain tore through my gut. A thick, metallic taste surged up my throat, and I spat a mouthful of dark red blood onto the light-colored rug. Lauren froze, staring at the stain. But Mr. Gable started sobbing. “Lauren, maybe I shouldn’t be here. I’m the reason you two are fighting.” Lauren instinctively turned to comfort him. I clung to the doorframe, my fingertips ice cold. “Lauren, I’m throwing up blood.” She looked back at me, swallowing hard, but before she could speak, our caregiver ran down the stairs, panic written all over her face. “Mr. John, something is wrong! Your father heard the noise and tried to come down to stop the fight. He passed out on the fourth floor!” A loud buzzing filled my ears. I bolted past Lauren toward the stairs. She gasped and tried to follow, but Mr. Gable went limp, grabbing her sleeve. “Lauren, my chest… I think I’m having a heart attack.” Lauren paused, reflexively catching him as he slipped from his chair. That single second of hesitation was all it took. I didn’t look back at her again. By the time the paramedics carried my father down the stairs, she was still in the living room, frantically feeding Mr. Gable his emergency nitroglycerin pills. When the ambulance doors slammed shut, my father’s limp hand had already fallen off the side of the gurney. The medic administered oxygen while a nurse checked his blood pressure, turning to me urgently. “You need to secure funds. He might need an ICU bed, and the standard ward is completely full.” I nodded, my palms slick with cold sweat. At the emergency room, the doctor emerged, speaking rapidly. “It’s a massive hemorrhagic stroke. Our standard ward doesn’t have the equipment. He needs to go to the private ICU immediately, but we need a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit to clear the emergency path.” I clutched the payment slip. “My investment funds clear tomorrow. Can we please start the procedure now?” The doctor looked at me grimly. “We will do everything we can, but the system won’t open the pathway without the deposit. Every minute we lose increases the risk.” I crouched at the end of the hallway and dialed Lauren’s number. The first call went unanswered. On the second try, she picked up. The background was quiet, like she was in her car. My voice shook uncontrollably. “Lauren, my dad had a stroke. He needs to go to the ICU right now. Transfer the twenty thousand dollars from our emergency savings.” A two-second silence followed before her voice returned, dripping with irritation. “John, I know your dad passed out. Old people get overwhelmed easily. Stop exaggerating a stroke to scare me.” I froze, a cold dread washing over me. “What did you say?” “I said stop blowing things out of proportion just because you’re throwing a tantrum,” she snapped. “Mr. Gable had severe chest pain because of your stunt. I already used that twenty thousand for his luxury care home deposit. Your dad has chronic issues. Stop using him as a pawn to get my attention.” I leaned against the wall, the taste of blood thick in my mouth. “He is dying! The doctors are waiting for the deposit to save his life!” Lauren’s voice grew cold. “The money is paid. It’s non-refundable.” She paused, adopting a patronizing tone. “John, adults have to face the consequences of their emotional outbursts. You ruined the party tonight. You can’t keep throwing fits to get your way.” The line went dead. I stared at the dark screen, slowly dragged myself up, and stumbled to the billing window, handing over every credit card I owned. The clerk shook her head. “Insufficient funds.” I desperately called relatives, friends, and real estate agents, offering to sell my pre-marriage apartment at half price, but the fastest transaction would still take until tomorrow. Suddenly, a flat, continuous beep echoed from the trauma bay. The doctor walked out, pulling off his mask, his eyes downcast. “Mr. John, I am so sorry. We did everything we can, but we missed the critical window. You should prepare to say goodbye.” I watched his lips move, but I couldn’t hear the words. The nurses wheeled my father out, a white sheet pulled over his chest. His hand, still marked with fresh bruises from the IV needles, hung limp. I reached out to hold it, but my own fingers felt entirely lifeless. My stomach violently convulsed, and when I looked down, I saw dark blood dripping from my chin onto the polished hospital floor, drop by drop. A nurse gasped. “Are you hemorrhaging from a gastric ulcer?” I tried to tell her my condition had ruptured, but the moment I opened my mouth, the world went black. When I woke up, I was in the surgical ward with a consent form placed in front of me. “You have severe internal bleeding from a ruptured ulcer. We need to perform emergency gastric resection surgery immediately. Where is your family?” I stared at the signature line and let out a weak laugh. “I don’t have any family. I’ll sign it myself.” My hand shook so violently I could barely write my name. As the nurse took the paper back, she softened her voice. “What is your wife’s phone number? You’ll need someone to care for you after the anesthesia wears off.” I turned my phone face down. “There is no need to call her.” The operating lights flickered on, cast in a blinding, sterile white. Lying there, I remembered the night we moved in, and the motion-sensor light Lauren had installed for Mr. Gable. She was so afraid he might fall in the dark, yet she let my father drag his broken body up four flights of stairs. After settling Mr. Gable, Lauren remembered the pool of blood on the rug and felt an unsettling knot of anxiety in her chest. She eventually drove to the hospital. Walking toward the nurse’s station, she caught the end of a shift change. The nurses spoke in hushed voices, but their words made her freeze mid-step. “That poor man, John. His father died of a massive stroke because they couldn’t afford the deposit, and then he nearly bled to death from a ruptured ulcer. He had to sign his own surgical consent form.” “What kind of monster is his wife?” The car keys slipped from Lauren’s hand, clattering loudly against the tiled floor.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “523902”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply