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In the end, I signed the consent form for the surgery myself. The doctor said I was lucky—just a mild concussion and a fractured collarbone. The person who was brought to the hospital with me didn't survive. Later, the traffic police came to investigate, and I realized that if it weren't for the kind person who pulled me out, the one lying in the morgue would be me. “We've detained the drunk driver. The person who saved you has late-stage lung cancer. Even if he survives, he won't live much longer. It's tragic for the little girl he left behind. She was born without a mother, and now her only relative is gone. Sigh.” A little girl of about six or seven, with red eyes, sat quietly at the entrance to the morgue. A tiny figure, her eyes vacant as she stared at a certain spot. No one could persuade her to leave. She refused to move, her small hands clinging to the door handle until her nails turned outward and blood flowed, as if she couldn’t feel the pain. "I'm not going anywhere. Wherever Dad is, that's where I'll be." That sight reminded me of myself as a child sitting in an orphanage. I knelt down to her level and blurted out: “Your father has gone to heaven. Will you stay with me from now on? I’ll be your mother.” The little girl’s round eyes widened, her eyelashes trembling. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears, and she threw herself into my arms, wailing uncontrollably. And so, I gained a daughter. Perhaps because she had never had a mother, Cherry was more mature and cautious than other children her age, like a little hedgehog. Only when facing me would Cherry put away her prickles. “Mom, you’re not alone. You can rely on Cherry.” During my three-day hospital stay, Cherry never left my side, her little face tense as if I might disappear at any moment. She took the spoon and fed me mouthful by mouthful. After ten months of pregnancy, I suffered heavy bleeding during childbirth and narrowly escaped death before giving birth to a son. However, this son was not as heart-wrenching as an adopted one. Cherry often put on a face and pretended to be angry, telling me to rest more and to order her around when I was eating or drinking. But my biological son hadn't sent a single message in all these days. Only a cold, indifferent statement: “Mom, Aunt Florence likes to watch the sea. Dad is taking us to the beach these days. Don't come bother us!”