Chapter 2

"Why did you come here by yourself? Everything's okay, right?" Dad asked while naturally walking to my left side. Mom shot him a playful glare before burying her head in my shoulder. "It's nothing. Our daughter's just grown up now. She knows to be considerate of us." "Even so, you can't come to the hospital alone. You hear me?" Dad huffed, pretending to be angry with me and pinching my cheek. Taking advantage of the moment, I slipped my phone that was already recording into his pocket. "Alright, I'm sorry, Dad. I'm going to get my checkup done now. Hold onto my phone for me, please." It was a very ordinary gesture, and neither of them thought much of it. Once I reached the OB-GYN department, I went into the examination room alone. Mom and Dad stood at the door, waving at me, their eyes filled with unwavering worry. In the past, I would have marveled at how I'd somehow ended up with the best family in the world. But now, all I felt was a bone-deep chill. It was as though countless venomous snakes were slithering across my body, ready to deliver the fatal strike. After the full series of tests, Mom was the first to show the specialist the reports. "Doctor, how do things look?" Dad pulled out the small notebook he always carried with him, in which he had carefully recorded all my preferences and dietary restrictions. To anyone else, they looked exactly like a pair of parents who loved their child deeply—that was… if I hadn't discovered the truth. "Dad, Mom, I need to use the restroom," I said, forcing a childlike tone, as I took my phone back from Dad and walked into the restroom, trembling. I had already mentally prepared myself countless times before pressing play on the recording, and yet, the very first words still made my heart ache. "Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, Ms. Fairchild has recovered quite well over the years. All the old injuries have healed, and with a bit more rest and care, she'll be able to conceive soon. Do you want to consider stopping her current medication? "I'm worried that if she continues taking it, she might become permanently infertile. Wouldn't that be too cruel to her?" The voice, tinged with guilt, belonged to my primary physician, Dr. Paul Brown. To deprive a woman of the chance to be a mother was cruel in itself. But the next second, Dad cut him off abruptly. "I didn't hire you so you could meddle in our matters. The medication doesn't stop. It's just a baby. Worst comes to worst, we can just adopt. That way, she'll even be spared the pain of childbirth." Agreeing with Dad, Mom also chimed in, "Marisol's health has always been poor, so not having a child would be in her best interest. We don't need an outsider like you giving your opinion. You're just a doctor—just focus on your job. Understood?" Both their tones were extremely sharp, and Dr. Brown hurriedly agreed. "I have no intention of interfering, Mr. Fairchild. I just wanted to remind you that continued use of the medication could not only affect Ms. Fairchild's ability to have children, but also seriously harm her health." It sounded like a rather serious issue, but Dad wasn't bothered at all. "I understand, but that's not something you need to worry about. Your only responsibility is to make sure she recovers. As for everything else, that has nothing to do with you." "Understood," Dr. Brown answered. As the recording came to an end, a shiver ran through me. All these years, I'd been living with deep guilt because I couldn't give Thaddeus a child. My parents always comforted me, telling me it wasn't my fault and that some things just couldn't be forced. As it turned out, they were the ones at fault. My infertility had been faked. They simply didn't want me to have Thaddeus' child because I wasn't worthy. Only their biological daughter was. No wonder I still had to keep taking the medication, even after so many years. Everything—the doctor, the concern, all of it—had been a lie. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. My body trembled, completely drained of strength. "Marisol." A knock sounded at the door. It was Mom, worried about my prolonged absence.