Chapter 4

"Don't worry about the surgery fees," I said. "Half a month is more than enough."

Yonathan stared at the money pouch for a long time, then stood up, walked behind the woodpile, moved a few bricks, and pulled out a tin box from a crack in the wall.

"Ninety-eight dollars and ten cents. I saved that up over eight years in the army. I was going to use it for my grandma's eye treatment," he said.

I looked at the neatly stacked bills, and a mix of sourness and warmth welled up inside me.

Eight years, eighteen dollars a month, scrimped and saved every penny.

"Keep your money," I said, pushing the box back. "Your grandma's eyes need treatment, too. We can't touch this money. I'll take care of your leg."

He struggled for a while, forcing the words out from his throat.

"Chloe... what are you after?"

I couldn't tell him that, in another life, he raised my daughter for me.

I couldn't tell him he spent his entire past life holding on alone, never having anyone to talk to.

I couldn't tell him that, in another life, the day he passed away, my daughter's photo sat forgotten on the table, covered in dust, with no one to clean it.

"I'm doing this because you're a good person," I said.

On the night of December 20th, I poured out all the cash I'd saved from slaughtering pigs and selling seasoned slow-cooked meats, and counted every dollar again.

One hundred ninety dollars and twenty cents. That was enough.

I said, "After the New Year, we'll head to the Havenshire General Hospital."

On the afternoon of December 31st, I rolled out fresh pasta sheets while Yonathan sat on the edge of the low bench, finely chopping greens for the filling.

Dorothy fumbled beside us, trying to shape the ravioli. Her parcels were lopsided and uneven, yet each was fashioned with great care.

The three of us huddled together around the small, low table as we worked.

Fire blazed brightly in the hearth, and the distant laughter of children at play drifted in from the street outside. Bursts of faint fireworks echoed softly in the air.

As the ravioli hit the boiling water, Dorothy suddenly spoke up.

"Chloe, do you think there'll be one more person at our table this time next year?"

I nearly choked on my soup.

Yonathan's face turned bright red, all the way to his neck, and he mumbled, "Grandma..."

Dorothy just chuckled for a long time.

I kept my head down, eating my ravioli, not saying a word.

But deep down, I was thinking that in my last life, I'd had a daughter without really knowing what I was doing, and I couldn't even keep her safe.

This time around, I needed to stand on my own two feet first before I worried about anything else.

That little girl from my past life, the one who suffered alongside me, the one who got scolded by the old man I married and wasn't allowed to call me "Mom," I wondered if I'd ever get the chance to see her again in this life.

On the sixth day after New Year's, we caught the bus to the Havenshire General Hospital.

The surgery was set for early the next morning.

That night, we slept on the benches in the hospital hallway because we could not afford lodging.

The hallway was lit by flickering yellow lights, and the whole place reeked of disinfectant.

Yonathan couldn't fall asleep.

Neither could I.

We sat side by side, not looking at each other.

"Chloe," he said.

"Hmm?" I answered.

"Why aren't you afraid?" he asked.

"What's there to be afraid of?" I replied.

"Aren't you afraid it might not work?" he said.

I thought for a moment.

"Even if the surgery doesn't work, you can still swing a hammer. You've been at it for years, bum leg and all, and it never slowed you down. If it gets fixed, that's just icing on the cake. If not, we'll keep living like always," I replied.

He sat in silence for a long time.

"What about you, Chloe? Is there anything you're afraid of?" Yonathan asked.

I leaned back on the bench, staring at a faded poster on the wall across from us. It showed a woman with braids, her smile bright and radiant, and beside her was the slogan, "Women are strong and equal to every kind of work."

Then I said, "I'm afraid of dying.

"I'm afraid that after I'm gone, no one will remember I ever existed."

The hallway was quiet for a long time.

Then Yonathan finally broke the silence, his voice quiet and heavy.

"I'll remember you."

The surgery went on for three hours the next day.

I sat outside the operating room for three hours, clutching the money pouch so tightly that my nails dug into my palm.

And at last, the door opened. The doctor said it went really well. Yonathan'd be in a cast for three months, and after that, he'd be back on his feet.

I went in to check on him. He still hadn't woken up, his face pale, his left leg in a cast, suspended from the bed frame.

Half-awake, his fingers moved a little. I reached out, and he grabbed my hand, holding on tight.

He mumbled something, barely audible.

I leaned in to hear him better.

"Don't go," he said.

I didn't leave.

He held my hand the whole night.

He didn't remember a thing when he woke up the next morning.

But I did.

Yonathan's recovery was the hardest three months of my life.

He couldn't do a thing, so everything fell on me.

During the day, I butchered pigs, prepared slow-cooked meat in the afternoons, and ran a small stall on market days.

And every morning and evening, I had to feed the pigs. The two piglets I'd bought before New Year's had already grown to about 35 pounds each.

I dropped ten pounds, but got lean and strong. My arms turned a golden brown from working under the sun, and the calluses on my hands grew even tougher.

One day, after coming back from the market, I pushed open the gate and saw Yonathan perched on a low stool.

His left leg was still in a cast, so he was balancing himself on his right leg, holding a hammer, with a piece of tin laid out in front of him.