Chapter 2

"Nurse? Are you going to continue?" An old man in line behind me impatiently poked his head forward.

I snapped back to reality, realizing my knuckles, pressed against the counter, were white. "Apologies, just a moment."

I forced myself to finish the remaining work, my mind replaying Dad's words.

As soon as my shift ended, I rushed into the locker room, locked the door, and only then dared to take out the paper again.

"Patient: Zoe Davies, Age: 6, Diagnosis: Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia."

"Matching Recipient: David Miller. Relationship: Father-Daughter."

"Father-Daughter."

Those two words seared my eyes.

I pulled out my phone and opened the hospital's internal system, typing in "Zoe Davies'" name.

A more detailed medical record page popped up.

The earliest visit was nine months ago. The most recent was three days prior, an outpatient visit where a new round of chemotherapy drugs was prescribed. The contact phone number field listed an unfamiliar mobile number.

The address was: Willow Creek Residences, Building 1, Apartment 602.

This wasn't our family's address, nor was it Dad's company apartment.

I stared at the address, racking my brain.

Nine months ago was precisely when Dad started his frequent "overtime" and "business trips." Mom even felt sorry for him, saying the company had many projects that year, and I should bother him less.

I opened my navigation app and typed in the address.

8.5 kilometers from the hospital, a mid-range apartment complex called Willow Creek Residences.

I don't know how I walked out of the hospital building, but I hailed a taxi. "Driver, to Willow Street, Willow Creek Residences."

On the way, I clutched the consent form in my pocket, my hands clasped in silent prayer that my worst fears wouldn't come true.

I arrived at the complex, pulled up my mask, and hid behind a large maple tree to the side.

Just as I was about to freeze, starting to wonder if I had the wrong place or if this was all a ridiculous misunderstanding, a figure too familiar for comfort appeared in the complex.

It was Dad.

He went upstairs and appeared in a window on an upper floor.

He bent down, his silhouette clear.

He was stroking the little girl's head.

So gently, so tenderly.

When I was little and had a fever, he would touch my forehead like that. But in recent years, such touches grew rare. He was always busy, and his head rubs became perfunctory, quick pats, his attention always seemingly elsewhere.

It turned out his tenderness and time hadn't disappeared.

They were just given to someone else.

I held back tears, raised my phone, my hand trembling slightly, but I still managed to capture that window, those three figures huddled together.

I don't know how long I stood under that tree. The window lights went out eventually, but my father never came out.

It seemed Dad wouldn't be coming home tonight.

Thinking of Mom still waiting at home for Christmas Eve dinner.

I dragged my numb legs out of the complex.

On the way home, I tried to compose myself, attempting to make my expression look normal.

"Alice, you're back?" My mom, wearing an apron, peered out from the kitchen, a smile on her face. "Perfect, I just finished preparing dinner. Your dad just SnapChatted that something came up at the office and he'll be late again this year, told us to eat first."

I opened my mouth, wanting to tell her the truth.

But my throat felt completely constricted.

I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing the truth that was about to burst out. "I'm going to wash my hands."

Turning towards the bathroom, my tears finally broke free.

I turned on the faucet, letting the sound of the running water mask my sobs.

At the dinner table, I tentatively asked Mom, "Is Dad really that busy with work? Not even a break for the holidays."

"I understand. Work is important."

I lowered my head, chewing the pasta in my mouth forcefully, but tasted nothing. My stomach felt like it was filled with ice.

I couldn't wait any longer.

On the last day of my holiday, I arrived at the hospital early.

I casually chatted with the nurses in the hematology ward. "Busy lately, huh? Can't even get peace during the holidays."

"Tell me about it, especially those high-risk leukemia kids; treatment can't stop. There's a little girl named Zoe, only six, poor thing."

My heart clenched sharply. "Zoe? That's a unique name."

"It is. She's also adorable, and her dad is very dedicated. He comes almost every day, stays with her through treatment, coaxes her to take medicine, sometimes he stays all night. Dads like that are rare these days."

"They are..." I murmured, my throat dry.