Chapter 3

Holding her phone, Rebecca’s face drained of color, piece by piece.

She avoided my gaze, her fingers gripping her phone tightly.

"That reporter... contacted me before," she muttered.

I said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"He said the community was discussing Mom’s illness lately and wanted to interview us. I refused."

"You refused?"

"I really did," she said quickly, as if trying to prove something. "He called again today, but I didn't pick up. I don't know why he showed up here."

I looked down at the call history on her screen.

Three missed calls.

The times were 9:20, 9:40, and 10:05.

Yet, they had already been sitting in my lobby before 10:00.

There were no such coincidences in this world.

My mother finally spoke.

"That's enough," she said, her voice faint. "Rebecca had no bad intentions."

I slowly turned my gaze to her.

I had been hearing that phrase for years.

When my sister’s business failed, my mother said she had no bad intentions, just a lack of experience. When my sister delayed paying back a friend, my mother said she had no bad intentions, just a tight budget. When my sister maxed out her credit cards after her divorce, my mother said the exact same thing.

She had no bad intentions.

It was as if as long as someone had no bad intentions, others were obligated to clean up her messes over and over again.

I put her phone back on the table.

"I won't discuss this at my office."

Rebecca pressed immediately, "Then when will you give us an answer?"

"After work."

She grew visibly anxious. "The hospital is discharging her today."

"And?"

"I really have nowhere else to go," she said, lowering her voice for the first time. "Evelyn, I know the family has wronged you a lot over the years. But right now, only you can help us."

I looked at her.

It sounded like a plea, but underneath lay the same familiar logic.

Because you are capable, the responsibility belongs to you.

They had never asked if I was willing to carry it.

Outside my door, the murmurs of my employees were already audible. I knew the video was spreading rapidly. Arguing further would do no one any good.

"Go back for now," I said, standing up. "I won't let the hospital kick Mom out."

My mother finally let out a sigh of relief, and a smile broke across Rebecca’s face.

She clearly took this as a compromise.

"I knew it—"

"I only said I won't let the hospital kick her out," I interrupted her. "As for future arrangements, I will make that decision myself."

Rebecca's smile froze.

Before leaving the office, I called out to my assistant.

"Contact legal. And the PR team. Meeting in thirty minutes."

Rebecca paused in her tracks. "What are you going to do?"

"Handle my business."

I offered no further explanation.

After they left, I stood by the window, watching her slowly push the wheelchair away from the building.

In the lobby, people were still taking photos.

Some recognized my mother, and some recognized me.

Once rumors start, they don't stop.

The issue was never what others thought. The issue was that this would soon affect my clients, my employees, and my entire firm.

At 1:00 PM, the PR director pulled up the data on the conference room's large screen.

The video had already surpassed 200,000 views.

The comment section was almost entirely hostile.

Some called me ungrateful. Some said successful people were the most cold-blooded. Others had dug up my interview from last year’s public community project.

The comments were dripping with sarcasm.

“So charitable to strangers, yet so cruel to her own mother.”

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

The head of legal put down his tablet. "We can send cease-and-desist letters."

But the PR director shook her head. "Cease-and-desist letters won't work right now. People only believe what they see."

Several people in the room turned to look at me. Everyone was waiting for my decision.

Just then, Daniel, my longtime project partner, pushed the door open and walked in. He had just returned from the construction site, his hard hat still in his hand.

"I saw the news," he said, pulling out a chair to sit down. "Are you going to explain?"

I fell silent for a few seconds. "Explain what? Explain how much money I’ve paid and how much responsibility I’ve carried for them over the years?"

I smiled faintly. "No one will care to read that."

But Daniel shook his head. "Whether they believe it is their choice. Whether you speak up is yours."

He placed a contract in front of me.

"When we bid for the city library project last year, a rival firm said you lacked the credentials. You won in the end. You didn't do it by arguing. You did it with evidence."

He stood up. "Call me after your meeting. Whichever way you decide, the East District project is still yours."

He spoke of partnership.

Not comfort, and he didn't offer advice. He had always known that the last thing I needed was someone to solve my problems for me.

After the meeting, the office grew quiet again.

I sat alone for a long time.

The video remained on my computer screen, the comment count ticking upward.

Suddenly, I remembered the year I graduated from college.

My sister said she wanted to start a business. My father's pension wasn't enough, so my mother came to find me in secret. She sat in my tiny rented apartment and asked hesitantly if I could lend them fifty thousand dollars.

She said it would only be for a year.

Later, one year became three. Three years became forever.

And then, my sister’s business failed. That fifty thousand dollars was never mentioned again.

I opened my online banking portal and scrolled through the transactions, line by line.

The money I transferred when my sister started her business. The money I paid for my father's surgery. My mother’s dental bills. My sister's divorce attorney fees. My sister’s overdue mortgage payments. Repairs on my parents' house. And the holiday gifts, living expenses, and insurance premiums over all these years...

The earliest record dated back fifteen years.

I had never deleted them, originally keeping them just to make tax season easier.

Now, they lay there quietly—each transaction with a date, a recipient, and a bank receipt.

I finally understood my biggest mistake over the years.

I had always thought that in a family, keeping score made us look like strangers.

But they had been keeping score from day one.

Who gets. Who gives. Who is responsible. Who sacrifices.

It was just that I was the only one who had been holding the ledger.

I opened my safe.

There was no cash or jewelry inside. Only an old, worn manila folder.

I placed it on the desk and opened it slowly.

Inside, meticulously organized, were fifteen years of bank statements, wire receipts, medical bills, loan records, and the promissory notes my sister had personally signed.

The legal director pushed the door open. "Evelyn, the media is starting to contact the firm."

I raised my head and pushed the folder toward him.

"Book a conference room for tomorrow morning. And hire a notary."

He looked down and flipped open the first page, his expression instantly freezing. "These are..."

"Fifteen years," I said, closing the folder. "Since they want to talk about family responsibility, we will lay all fifteen years of it right on the table."