Chapter 2

By the time I took the elevator downstairs, a dozen possibilities had already flashed through my mind.

Was my mother sick?

Had my sister finally decided to drop her off for me to take care of?

Or had some other accident happened?

It wasn't until the elevator doors slid open that I realized the reality was far more absolute than I had imagined.

At Rebecca's feet sat two twenty-eight-inch suitcases and a cardboard box stuffed with medicine bottles and daily necessities.

My mother sat in a wheelchair, a blanket draped over her knees. Her face was sallow, and she had lost a significant amount of weight.

A small crowd had already gathered in the lobby.

The receptionists, security guards, and a few clients who had just finished their meetings were all stealing glances in our direction.

The moment Rebecca saw me, a look of immense relief washed over her face.

"Evelyn, you're finally down."

I walked over to my mother and squatted in front of her.

"When did you start using a wheelchair?"

My mother pursued her lips.

"About a month ago."

"Why did no one tell me?"

She avoided my gaze.

Rebecca chimed in, "Mom wouldn't let us. She was afraid of affecting your work."

I didn't reply, looking only at my mother's legs.

Her left hand pressed down on her knee, her movements stiff.

"What did the doctor say?"

"A stroke," Rebecca answered. "Her recovery hasn't been ideal. Her left side still has barely any strength."

I stood up.

"Was she hospitalized?"

"For three weeks."

"What about the expenses?"

The smile on Rebecca's face faltered slightly.

"We've... pretty much spent everything."

I finally understood why they had showed up today.

"Let's talk upstairs."

Rebecca nodded quickly. "Yes, good idea."

But my eyes remained on the two suitcases.

"Leave the luggage here."

She blinked in confusion. "Why?"

"Because I still don't know whether you came today to visit me, or to move in."

The expression on her face drained away, piece by piece.

The people in the lobby had heard every word.

After a couple of seconds of silence, she finally let go of the luggage handles.

We went up to my office.

My assistant brought in three glasses of water and closed the door behind her.

I swept my meeting files into a drawer and sat down opposite them.

"Go ahead."

Rebecca spoke first.

"The doctor advised that Mom shouldn't live alone anymore. She needs long-term care."

"Okay."

"The apartment I'm renting right now is too small, and there's no elevator. Besides, I have to go out and look for a job every day. I simply can't take care of her."

She was speaking the truth.

After her divorce, she had indeed moved into an old neighborhood.

Even finding a parking spot there was a struggle, let alone navigating a wheelchair in and out.

I didn't interrupt her.

She continued.

"Your place has an elevator, and it's close to the hospital. Your working hours are flexible, too."

She looked up at me.

"Evelyn, take Mom in."

The office fell quiet for a few seconds.

I didn't answer immediately.

Because I was remembering six months ago.

On the day of my father's funeral.

My mother gave all the money from the house sale to my sister to pay off her debts.

And then she told me with her own mouth that she would leave her old age care to me.

So, it hadn't been a passing remark.

She had planned everything out for everyone long ago.

I looked at my mother. "Is this your wish?"

My mother nodded. "Rebecca really cannot take care of me."

"What about an assisted living facility?"

Her expression shifted instantly. "I'm not at the stage where I need to live in a nursing home."

"A hired caregiver, then."

Rebecca shook her head immediately. "That's seven or eight thousand dollars a month. We can't possibly afford that."

"So, you thought of me."

Rebecca drew in a soft breath. "Don't make it sound so ugly."

"Ugly?" I smiled faintly. "Six months ago, when you sold the house, no one asked if I wanted a share of the money. Today, when care is needed, I'm the first person you think of."

Rebecca frowned. "Those are two different things."

"How are they different?"

She raised her voice. "The house belonged to Mom and Dad in the first place! They could give it to whomever they wanted!"

"I agree," I nodded. "And taking care of Mom is my choice, too. I get to decide whether to agree or not."

Rebecca choked on her words.

She clearly hadn't expected me to use her exact same logic against her.

My mother finally spoke.

"Evelyn." Her voice was even softer than before. "Mom knows you've been wronged all these years."

This was the first time I had ever heard the word "wronged" come out of her mouth.

Yet, I felt no emotion.

Because I knew all too well that people only find it easiest to say they understand you when they need something from you.

"Since you know," I asked calmly, "why didn't you leave me a single penny when you sold the house?"

My mother's lips parted slightly. "Rebecca was in a bad situation."

"So my situation is never worth considering?"

"You've always been independent."

There it was again.

I had been hearing this sentence for over thirty years.

When we were young, it meant my sister came first.

When we grew up, it meant my sister got more.

And now, it meant my sister didn't have to carry any of the responsibility.

Suddenly, I felt that this sentence was sharper than any insult.

Because it packaged all their favoritism as trust in me.

Seeing my mother's face grow paler, Rebecca quickly interjected, "Evelyn, stop pushing Mom."

"I'm pushing her?"

"She just got out of the hospital. Can you please stop holding onto the past?"

I looked at her. "You think that's in the past."

"Isn't it?"

"If I were the one in the wheelchair today, would you take me into your home and care for me?"

Rebecca opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

I already knew the answer.

It wasn't that she didn't know how to lie.

She just didn't dare to tell that lie in front of our mother.

Right then, there was a sudden knock on my office door.

My assistant pushed the door open and stepped in.

"Evelyn, I'm sorry to interrupt," she whispered. "Someone is filming a video downstairs in the lobby. Someone has already posted it to the local community group."

Rebecca tensed. "What video?"

My assistant handed me her phone.

On the screen was the exact scene from the lobby moments ago.

The caption had already been set:

“Famous female architect refuses to take in paralyzed mother; biological sister weeps on the spot.”

Below the video, comments were refreshing rapidly.

“She makes so much money, yet she doesn't even want her own mother?”

“How is someone like this fit to design public community buildings?”

“She designs houses, but won't give her own mother a place to live.”

Rebecca's face turned pale. "I didn't post that..."

Just as she finished speaking, her phone suddenly rang.

She looked down at the caller ID, her expression instantly panicking, and she instinctively declined the call.

I caught a glimpse of the saved contact name.

Mason — Local Media.

I slowly raised my head and looked at her.

"Do you really not know why someone was waiting downstairs to record us today?"