Chapter 2

That day, my aunt never got to celebrate Mira's birthday, and she never would again.

She became a name etched into a box of ashes.

And my mom would never celebrate mine again either.

Mira and I lost our mothers on the same day.

After that, I never dared to touch goat milk again.

My world collapsed.

That day at the hospital, I remember instinctively turning to look for my father, desperate for him to tell me it wasn't real—that it was all just a bad dream.

But instead, he held Mira close with one arm and slapped me hard across the face with the other.

His eyes blazed with rage. He looked at me as if I were a stranger, maybe even an enemy. In the middle of the hospital corridor, he spoke through clenched teeth, "If you hadn't faked that stomachache, none of this would've happened. Summer Hart, you killed them."

The hit sent me sprawling to the ground. I sat there, dazed, feeling the sting across my cheek.

He had never hit me before.

My teeth were loose, and my chest ached. But what hurt most was how he genuinely believed I had faked it.

He pointed at me, trembling with fury. "Every time you were upset, you pretended to be sick so your mother would baby you. But Mira only spilled something on your dress, and your mom was driving. Why would you choose that moment to act out? You're disgusting."

I froze at that last word. Even at eight, I knew that word was heavy.

"Dad." I shook my head through tears. "I wasn't pretending. I was really in pain."

He didn't care. He didn't soften. In a panic, I reached for Mira, sobbing. "Mira, you know, don't you? I really had a stomachache."

But my father only clutched her tighter and stepped back.

It felt like I was something dangerous, like if she touched me, something awful would happen to her too.

I was just eight, but that was when I first understood how much a heart could hurt.

What I didn't realize then was that it wouldn't be the last time. I didn't know this pain would return, haunting me again and again.

Until it no longer hurts. Until I became numb to it.

Before walking away, my father met my eyes and said coldly, "Summer Hart, I will never forgive you."

And then he left the hospital with Mira.

I waited in the cold hospital hallway until night fell, utterly alone and forgotten, until the family driver realized I was missing and came to bring me home.

When I got home, Mira was at the dinner table, sobbing softly into her food.

My father gently stroked her hair and said, "Mira, this is your home now. Whatever Summer has, you'll have too."

Mira collapsed into his arms, crying harder.

Just once, she turned and glanced at me with a look that I didn't understand back then.

But later, I did. And by then, it was already too late.

I miss my mother so much.

When she was around, I really was the family's little princess.

My father always said she spoiled me too much. But she would laugh and say, "Summer's a softhearted girl. If I don't protect her, she'll get hurt too easily."

My father would scoff in response. "She's my daughter. Who would dare hurt her?"

But now, with my mother gone, there was no one left to protect me.

My father started treating me like I was invisible.

He waited every morning for Mira to wake up. He made her breakfast and asked about school. Sometimes, he'd stare at her face and cry, murmuring how much she looked like his sister.

But me? He didn't speak or see me, as if I didn't exist.

I stayed quiet. I didn't dare say anything.

He still hated me.

He blamed me for the stomachache and for distracting my mother while she was driving.

Everything was my fault.

And the thing is, I didn't even understand why it happened. I'd drunk goat milk all my life without issue. So why did it hurt that day?

But I knew from the moment of the crash that I had become a sinner and the one who should've died.

One afternoon after school, I forgot she was gone and called out for her in the kitchen. My father overheard and said coldly, "You don't deserve to call for her. Not anymore."

So, I didn't even know if I was allowed to miss my mother anymore. But I missed her so much. I really do.

Just like Mira cried for her mother every night, except she had my father to comfort her, and I had no one.

So I crept into my mother's room that night, clutching her photo, and cried the whole night.

I whispered to her picture, "Mom, Dad said I killed you. Is that true?"

The photo didn't answer. But outside, the calm night snapped.

Thunder split the sky as rain pounded against the windows, the wind howling like a wounded soul. It felt as if the whole world had heard my words and was furious.

I sat by the bed, clutching her photo, soaked by the rain pouring through the window. I didn't make a sound or move.

Even when my arms and legs went numb, I didn't budge.

Something inside me froze that night. Perhaps that was when I first began to grow cold toward myself, numb and disconnected from my feelings.

At first, it was a tiny seed of numbness, buried deep and unnoticed.

Who could have known it would grow and twist into a thick vine, choking my throat and never releasing its grip?

That night, a fierce fever raged within me. Forty degrees, chilled by the freezing rain, I passed out in my mother's room.

At that time, my father had just read Mira her bedtime story and gone to his study room. He didn't realize I was gone until breakfast the next morning.

The helper later told me that when my father found me unconscious in my mother's room, still clutching her photo, he broke down in tears.

According to her, he scooped me into his arms and rushed me to the hospital, muttering under his breath, "Daddy doesn't blame you anymore. Summer, please stay with me."

She added, "Your father still loves you. You're his daughter, after all."

But I didn't know what to believe.

Hadn't he called me disgusting?

When I woke up in the hospital, my father was there. His eyes were red and swollen, and his grip on my hand was tight. His voice trembled as he whispered, "Summer, my sweet girl, Daddy doesn't blame you anymore. Please... just live."

I stared at him, unsure whether to believe it. When he reached out to hug me, I flinched without thinking.

It felt like a dream. And I was terrified that if I let him hold me, it would all disappear.

He paused, then took my hand gently. "I promise," he said. "I swear. I'll love you from now on. I'll never blame you again."

He looked panicked, desperate. "Just stay alive. That's all I ask. Just stay with me."

I stared at his face, studied every line and feature.

Perhaps it wasn't a dream after all.

Maybe the father who once loved me had truly returned.

A faint smile broke through my lips, which were cracked and dry.

Back then, I believed that when adults made promises, they meant to keep them.