“Why?” Loren lifted her tear-streaked face.
Arthur gazed at her, his voice low and fervent. “Because I like—”
The ward door burst open.
Startled, Loren sprang away from Arthur’s arms like a frightened rabbit.
Abraham stepped in cautiously, his small face flushed as he cradled a lunch box with both hands.
“Abraham, did you bring this for Mommy?” I asked softly, warmth blooming in my chest despite the pain. I knew he couldn’t cook, but seeing him here, so concerned, still touched me.
To my surprise, Abraham’s expression twisted into a frown.
“It’s not for you,” he muttered. “I bought it for Aunt Loren with my own pocket money.”
My breath caught.
“What did you just say?” My voice trembled—not from weakness, but from anger.
Abraham looked away, face full of irritation—so much like his father’s.
Loren seized the moment and rushed to the bedside, gripping my wrist tightly. “Sister, I’m so glad you’re okay! Does it still hurt? I was so scared... It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t—”
I pulled my hand away and rasped, “Yes, I am hurt. All because of you.”
At that moment, my parents entered the room, their expressions stormy.