Chapter 12

Chapter 12

She’d been extremely weak then—pale, gaunt, wearing a wig. We’d met at the sanatorium. I’d hesitated to see her, but it was our last meeting. After all, we were biological sisters.

"You’re jealous of me, aren’t you?" she’d said, getting straight to the point.

I didn’t know how to answer, so I stayed silent.

"But I’m jealous of you too. You have a happy family, you’re outstanding, you have money and time—you only need love. But I wanted too much. I couldn’t be as free-spirited as you," she’d said.

"I’m not free-spirited," I replied.

"After I die, go find him. Be with him. Help me take care of him. He’s not even forty—he shouldn’t be lonely for the rest of his life. If there’s going to be someone else eventually, I’d rather it be you," she’d said.

She handed me a notebook filled with details about Dylan’s likes and dislikes, and all the little moments they’d shared over the years. It felt like I was following in another woman’s footsteps to find the man I loved.

Before she left, she’d said, "I’m sorry for what I did to you, but I don’t regret it."

At the time, I’d thought her words were just a reflection on our sisterhood. I never knew life would be such a farce.

Later, when Luna died, I’d waited at the agreed street corner and "happened" to run into Dylan. After a moment of shock, he’d pursued me fiercely.

See? Even my love had been a gift from Luna Parker. All these years, I’d lived in her shadow, feeling more and more like her. And Dylan had never realized that I was Sophia Bennett—not Luna Parker.

The dead were gone, leaving me as a walking corpse in this world, drowning in sorrow every day.

"Ring, ring, ring."

The sky was just starting to lighten when the hospital called. "Ms. Sophia Bennett? Please come to the hospital right away—your mother is dying," the nurse said.

My phone slipped from my hand. I froze for five full minutes before mechanically rushing to get dressed. The noise must have woken Dylan. His voice was hoarse: "What’s wrong?"

"My mom... she’s dying," I said, not waiting for him to respond or even changing out of my slippers as I ran to the hospital.

My mother could no longer speak. She just held my hand, sobbing, her eyes staring toward the door, making indistinct sounds. Illness strikes like a storm. I’d known this day would come, but when it finally arrived, I couldn’t bear it.

Just as the heart monitor flatlined, Dylan burst in. He wasn’t wearing proper shoes either—he was still in the shirt he’d worn drinking the night before, with stains from vomit on the collar.

In the past, I would have helped him change, wiped him down—just like Luna would have. But now, I was tired.

The only person in the world who’d had a deep connection with me was gone. I looked at the man kneeling in the mourning hall, crying bitterly. Would he be my last refuge? I didn’t dare to believe it.

I didn’t cry once until her burial. Maybe there were no tears left after overwhelming grief—only a heart full of sorrow. When I got home, I fell ill with a high fever. I went to the hospital, and the doctor said, "Congratulations—you’re eight weeks pregnant."

I was stunned. Dylan was too.

He remained silent the entire ride home.

After opening the door, changing shoes, he finally spoke: "Sui Sui, let’s get rid of the baby."