Chapter 3

I spent three days in the hospital.

My father didn't visit once.

Instead, Mrs. Shen — Sandra Shen — showed up. She brought a box of discount cookies that were nearly expired.

She was dressed in a simple but well-tailored dress, standing at the door of my room with her signature wounded expression.

"Emma, sweetie. Just came to check on you."

She set the cookies on the bedside table and smoothed her hair.

"Anya's been under so much pressure with the competition. She accidentally hurt your hand."

"I've already had a serious talk with her."

"And your father helped clear everything up. So we're even now, right?"

Even?

I looked at that cheap little box of cookies and almost laughed.

"My hands could play Chopin. And you think they're worth a box of clearance cookies?"

Sandra's expression flickered. Then the smile came back.

"Oh, Emma, don't be like that."

"When your father had that malpractice incident years ago, it was me who took the fall for him. Remember that."

"A person has to have some conscience. Your father understands that — that's why he's so reasonable."

"Besides, your family is well off. You're not exactly hurting for the rehab money, are you?"

"My Anya is performing at Carnegie Hall. She cannot have a criminal record following her around."

In that moment, I finally understood the expression shameless and unstoppable.

These people were leeches.

And my father was the fool who'd been baring his neck for them — and complaining the blood wasn't flowing fast enough.

"Get out."

I pointed at the door.

"Take your cookies and get out."

Sandra's smile collapsed.

"You have no manners whatsoever. No wonder Anya can't stand you. You need to be taught a lesson."

She muttered all the way out, cookies in hand.

Right before the door closed, she threw one spectacular eye roll.

Disgusting.

Absolutely disgusting.

That afternoon, the head nurse came in with a billing statement.

Her expression wasn't good.

"Emma, your account is in arrears."

"If you don't make a payment, tomorrow's secondary nerve reconstruction surgery will have to be cancelled."

I went still.

"Arrears? My father — Dr. Lin — didn't pay?"

The head nurse shook her head.

"Dr. Lin called yesterday and withdrew the $20,000 prepayment."

"He said… he said the other family urgently needed the money to purchase a limited-edition antique violin, and he was lending it to them in the meantime."

"He said you should cover it yourself for now."

Something snapped inside me. Clean and final.

He withdrew my surgery money — to buy an instrument for the person who destroyed me?

What kind of father does that?

My hands were shaking as I borrowed the nurse's phone to call him.

It rang for a long time before he picked up.

From the background came the lilt of a violin, and my father's easy, relaxed laughter.

"Hello? Who's this?"

"It's me."

A brief silence on the other end.

Then my father's voice, impatient.

"Emma? Where's your phone? Why are you calling from a strange number?"

"Richard. You withdrew my surgery funds."

I used his first name.

"Is that how you talk to your father?"

His voice climbed a few notes.

"Sandra and Anya are about to go on tour and they need to look the part."

"You're resting in the hospital — that surgery can wait a few days, it's not going anywhere. So I moved the money to help them out temporarily."

"You still have money from your performances, don't you? Use that."

"Don't be selfish. Learn to be happy for other people."

Happy for other people?

He was breaking my fingers one by one to roll out a red carpet for someone else.

"That surgery is my only chance to save my right hand!"

I screamed into the phone.

"The doctor said if we miss this window, I will never play again!"

"You gave the money to Anya for a violin? Are you out of your mind?"

From the other end, Sandra's voice drifted in, theatrical and soft.

"Oh, Richard, if Emma really needs it urgently, we can hold off on the violin for now…"

Then my father's voice, firm and decided.

"Sandra, don't listen to her. She's being dramatic."

"These local doctors love to scare people — it's never as serious as they make it sound."

"The performance is what matters. Anya is on the verge of being scouted by the Royal Academy. She needs a proper instrument."

"Emma, figure it out yourself. Don't bother me with this."

Click.

The line went dead.

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