Rain had poured over Oceanview City all night, and the lights in the operating room flickered on and off as surgeons worked through the darkness.
By dawn, Celestine finally managed to open her heavy eyelids. Her entire body still burned with fever and a dull ache that showed no sign of fading.
“Miss Selwyn, you’re dealing with a viral infection. Luckily, you got here in time. If you’d come any later and it turned into pneumonia, your life would’ve been at risk.” The nurse, who had stopped by to change her bandages, chattered softly at Celestine’s bedside, concern etched on her young face as she handed over a freshly charged phone. “Last night, we tried calling your husband several times, but no one picked up. Then the phone died. You should let your family know–you must have people worried about you.”
Celestine accepted the phone, her expression unreadable, though her heart twisted painfully at
the nurse’s words.
She forced a polite smile. “Thank you. I’ll call him.”
Families like theirs–perfect, happy, and whole–never had time for her calls.
Celestine powered up her phone as soon as it had enough charge. The screen lit up, and she saw several missed calls from Chester.
She paused, surprised.
Before she could process it, the special ringtone she’d set for her daughter rang out.
Worried that something might have happened, she answered quickly. “Hello? Celia, is everything-?”
“Mom!” Celia’s voice cut through, cold and furious. “Do you have any idea? Because of you, Miss
Sinclair almost died!”
Celestine’s face went still. “Celia, what are you talking about?”
Her daughter’s voice only grew more agitated. “The doctor said Miss Sinclair had a severe allergic reaction from wearing your clothes! Dad stayed with her all night–she barely made it! If you hadn’t put that herbal stuff on your pajamas, she wouldn’t have been in danger. You’re a murderer! Why aren’t you the one in the hospital bed?”
Hearing her own child–the daughter she’d carried for nine months–curse her with such venom was like having every bone in her body carved apart with a rusty knife.
The herbal–scented pajamas…
When Celia and Raymond were born, they’d both been weak and sickly. Following her own. mother’s traditions, Celestine would use a little herbal oil–mild, soothing, safe for children–on their clothes. Over the years, she’d gotten used to scenting her own pajamas, too. Sometimes, the oil gave her a rash, but she endured it, always choosing her children’s health over her own
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comfort.
Her skin had grown numb to the irritation, and the gentle, familiar scent became part of her. Chester used to complain she smelled like an apothecary.
“Celia, calm down,” Celestine said, her voice suddenly cold and steady. “You know as well as I do, Miss Sinclair took my pajamas without asking. She’s the one who’s allergic–how does that make this my fault?”
Celia had never heard her mother speak to her like that. She faltered, sniffling. “Why should I tell you? You moved out already. Dad was the one who let Miss Sinclair use your clothes. And last night, while Miss Sinclair was in danger, you ignored Dad’s calls on purpose! You’re terrible! I don’t ever want to talk to you again!”
With that, Celia hung up, adding her mother’s number right back to her block list.
This time, she’d leave Mom blocked for a whole year–she was determined. After all, she was still young, and Mom usually cared about her the most. But now, she’d teach her mother a lesson and make her realize her mistakes.
Celestine’s hands went ice–cold; her palms trembled. She could hardly believe those words had come from her own daughter.
Her vision blurred, the tears welling until everything shimmered. The ache in her chest, numb for so long, suddenly throbbed with renewed pain.
Then, out of nowhere, a small, pale hand appeared before her, offering a tissue.
“Miss Angel, your eyes are raining. Here, wipe them.”
Celestine looked up. In front of her stood a little girl, maybe four years old, dressed in a hospital gown. Her skin was porcelain pale, her dark hair a bit messy, and her eyes–clear and deep as summer grapes–were filled with concern.
It was little Cynthia from the next bed.
Just that morning, Celestine had noticed Cynthia’s IV nearly empty and had called for the nurse before anything could go wrong.
