Chapter 4
Honestly, my dad used to really dote on me.
Back then, I was the apple of his eye.
I was born with a heart condition, probably because I was born early. I was always frail, and I had to take medicine every day to get by.
When I was little, I ended up in the hospital almost every month.
My mom was a total powerhouse. She became an associate professor at the university before she turned thirty.
She was always swamped with lectures and theses, her schedule packed from dawn till dusk.
She barely had time for me.
When I first started elementary school, I ended up catching a cold.
I had a heart attack and passed out, so the school rushed me to the hospital for emergency treatment.
At the time, my mom was out of town giving a lecture, and my dad, who worked as a designer, was overseas meeting clients.
Aside from the teacher, it was only my brother—barely in his teens—who came with me to the hospital. He was so anxious that he broke down and sobbed in the hallway.
My dad rushed back from overseas and quit his job that very night.
He walked away from his career when he was at the top of his game.
After that, he spent over ten years as a stay-at-home dad.
Most of my childhood memories were of him—one hand holding an umbrella, the other holding mine, walking me to school whether it was sunny or pouring rain.
Or he'd carry me on his back, stepping through the rain-soaked streets, making sure I got home safe and dry.
The man who used to always show up in a sharp suit and tie eventually changed them for a t-shirt, sweatpants, and an apron.
He'd be humming a tune as he made my medicine and soup for me every morning and night.
Sometimes, when my dad ran into his old coworkers on the street, he'd force a smile, but the embarrassment in his eyes was impossible to hide.
When I started middle school, he couldn't hold back anymore and went back to work.
But he barely lasted a month before I ended up in the hospital again because I'd been pulling all-nighters to study for my exams.
After that, he quit his job again and devoted himself completely to taking care of me, never once bringing up work or his career ever again.
As I grew up, it hit me that I was a burden to him.
That night, he came home carrying a box, looking beat-up and exhausted.
Standing under the streetlight, watching him walk over, I couldn't help but ask, "Am I a burden to you?"
He paused for a second, a little taken aback.
Then he reached out and gently patted my head.
He gave me that gentle smile he always wore. "Come on, you are always my little princess."
He was the gentlest, kindest dad, and he taught me to be gentle and kind too.
So when I was eighteen, a college freshman, I found Lucas lying on the side of the road, covered in blood.
I didn't even hesitate for a second. I took him straight to the hospital. After that, he latched onto me and never let go.
Lucas said that after he stabbed himself, even his own parents wanted nothing to do with him.
I was the only one who ever saved him.
So he wanted to marry me and wanted me to love him forever.
That was when I started to realize he was seriously messed up in the head.
I finally got my hands on his medical records.
He had a severe mental illness—borderline personality disorder.
I started trying to avoid him, but he got more and more obsessed, his harassment growing crazier by the day.
He was clever. He always made sure that anything too out of line never left any evidence on camera.
My parents and brother called the cops and even helped me take him to court, but the most that ever happened was he got locked up for a few days.
Other than stalking and harassment, Lucas never actually hurt me, so the police and courts basically had their hands tied.
He kept getting worse.
That day, I was driving home in the car my mom had given me for my eighteenth birthday.
As I got in, I suddenly realized Lucas was sitting in the car.
He suddenly started the engine, trying to take me away.
Panic-stricken, I fumbled to call my dad for help.
Lucas lured my brother, who was chasing after us, onto some twisting mountain roads.
He was a professional racer. He could handle the roughest terrain.
As Lucas sped around a sharp corner, my brother's car caught up to us, smashed through the guardrail, and went tumbling down the cliff.
The Shaw family hired the best defense lawyers.
Two lives gone, and all Lucas got was five years behind bars.
I could barely remember what happened that day anymore.
All I could recall was my dad storming out of the ER and slapping me hard across the face.
My dad, who'd always been gentle, had tears in his eyes for the first time as he yelled at me, "Why couldn't it have been you who died?"
He was so traumatized that his memories got all mixed up.
He started believing I'd run off with Lucas, ignoring my family's warnings.
He even thought I deliberately led my brother's car onto those mountain roads, trying to escape my family's intervention.
For the next seven years, he kept asking me the same question over and over. "Why couldn't it have been you who died?"