Page 55 of My Ruthless Opponent

“Why don’t you talk to me, Dad?” I shake my head in dismay. “Wish I could go back in time and save Mom. I am good for nothing.” Hot tears spill on my cheek.

I don’t talk about her often. Because I know it would slice open the wounds on my heart.

While Dad has always been my rock, Mom was my strength. The source of my contentment. I always looked up to her.

My mother had me at the age of forty-three. As I was her miracle baby, she spoiled me with love and attention.

Mom’s voice was always warm and gentle. Then one day, the sweetest voice fell silent forever. She was gone. Because of me.

When my mom died, a part of me died with her. A big chunk that held tenderness and love. Which was inspired by her.

When she was gone, I was left with nothing but anger, hatred, and pain.

I miss her so much. It physically hurts whenever I think of her. So I keep her memories and thoughts buried inside of me.

I am suddenly filled with so much pain and anguish, I let out a shaky breath. I sniff and look up at him.

I am so sorry, Dad.

Slowly, his head turns to me. My aching heart begins pounding in my chest when Dad’s eyes meet mine.

Holding my breath, I sit up sharply, ignoring the burn from the chafing of my dress pants and the hardwood floor.

Is he returning back to me? Will I be reuniting with the man who was my hero or will I be facing the empty vessel he became after we lost Mom? Because now, all he has become is a living breathing corpse. And nothing is more painful for a daughter to see her father like this.

“D-dad?” My voice wobbles. I press my trembling lips together as I rub his hands. “Dad, it’s me. Hannah.”

A ray of hope shines over me as I wait for his response.

My heart twists when he watches me like I am a complete stranger.

I can give about anything to hear his voice.

Giving up, I slump on my heels. Smiling through my tears, I speak, “Thank you.”

Thank you for looking at me. For acknowledging my presence, Dad. This is a big improvement.

Instead of being grateful, I became greedy.

I should discuss it with Dr. Riaz. It was the first time he showed a sign of improvement. I need to notify the doctor now.

I push to my feet and rush out to find him.

???

Dr. Riaz is a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair.

He adjusts his glasses for the second time since I entered his office.

Apart from adjusting his glasses, he has been listening to me with rapt attention.

We are sitting in his office of white walls and furniture, but all I can envision are bright colors. Happy colors.

“You need to visit him more often, Hannah. Especially now that he is beginning to show improvements. Your company can speed it up.”

I nod, feeling a stab of guilt.

“Physically he is absolutely fine. The only reason he still needs his wheelchair is his unwillingness to get better. It’s like he doesn’t want to live. It might be because of the survivor’s guilt or the trauma of losing your mother. We would never know it because he refuses to talk.”

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