TPCF 66

CHAPTER 66……………………

Even though all she’d found was a simple first aid kit, Anita carried it as if she had discovered some kind of ancient relic. Carefully sidestepping the shards of broken dishes scattered across the floor, she reached Rutger’s bed.

While Anita rummaged through the kit, Rutger quietly looked down at the crown of her head and finally asked what he’d been wondering.

“Why aren’t you asking?”

“Mm, I’m not really curious.”

A lie. Anyone could see the curiosity burning in her eyes, but she was deliberately pretending otherwise. It amused him. Anita was the kind of person whose every thought showed plainly on her face—though she herself clearly didn’t realize it.

From a young age, Anita had been taught never to pry into other people’s family matters. And with a lawyer father, she knew well just how many unusual families there were in the world.

“He’s not my dad.”

“Hm?”

“He’s not my real father.”

Rutger tossed out the words casually, but Anita didn’t even hear them. She was too busy dabbing at the blood on his hand, wincing as if she herself were the one in pain.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Huh? Mad? What do you mean?”

Only after tossing away the bloodied cotton did Anita look up at Rutger’s face.

“I took out my anger on you yesterday for no reason. You’re not even upset? If it were me, I wouldn’t bother treating someone who snapped at me like that.”

His sky-colored eyes stared straight into hers. For some reason, Anita felt like Rutger was trying to peer into her head—searching for something.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to write about you.”

“What? That’s….”

“Sometimes I lose my temper with my parents too, for no reason. But the next day, Mom and Dad treat me like nothing happened. It’s not like it’s a crime—it just happens sometimes.”

“I’m not your son, though.”

“……”

Anita applied ointment to his hand, blew gently so it wouldn’t drip, then wrapped it neatly with bandages. Rutger, waiting for her answer, barely noticed what she was doing.

“Isn’t that right?”

Anita often accompanied her father to volunteer at orphanages. Some of the children were sweet, but most were rough and sensitive. Once, when a boy hit her with a hard plastic toy and made her cry, her father had told her:

“Anita, you mustn’t whine. Maybe at home, but not here.”

“Why? He threw that at me first! I want to go home.”

“You already have everything. These children don’t have families, and they live in unstable environments. That’s why you, who have so much, must be kind to them.”

“……”

“Anita, Rutger is hurting inside. His body is fine, but his heart isn’t. You need to understand him a little.”

Anita’s eyes met Rutger’s. He no longer waited for her reply. The moment their eyes locked, he spat the words out.

“Are you pitying me?”

“……”

“Did I ever ask you to?”

“Rutger, calm down. You’re a patient right now. Lie down and rest.”

“Get out! I said get out!”

Anita both understood and didn’t understand him. Was it wrong to feel sympathy for someone who was hurting more than herself? She had been kind, just as her father had taught her, and accepted everything—but was that a mistake?

Even so, she obediently left the room. Patients needed rest; pain made people irritable. Rutger was just a patient, so he needed time.

Closing the door behind her, Anita carried the first aid kit back downstairs.

“Anita, what’s that in your hand?”

“Oh, Aunt Sarah.”

Just as she was about to leave, Sarah opened the door and stepped in.

Anita hesitated. If she told, Rutger would definitely be angry. But a patient needed a guardian. She couldn’t be the one to check his temperature, apply medicine, and change bandages every hour.

“Rutger’s hurt.”

“What?”

Anita set the ointment and bandages in front of Sarah, then left the Bailans’ house.

Even though she had done what her parents always taught her—to be kind—she didn’t feel good. Standing in the middle of the garden, she fell into thought.

The deep discord within families. The thought of someone comforting her and treating her wounds if she got hurt.

She didn’t really know.

Still, wasn’t it enough just to have all her limbs intact, a warm bed to sleep in, and meals to eat? That’s what her father had always said.

Nathan Rodel was one of those people who believed in his own superiority. Proof of that was his lack of faith in God. He scorned people who prayed before meals or went to church, calling them ignorant and lazy. In his eyes, the time spent praying would be better spent reading a book and improving oneself.

And indeed, he had been born into a poor, disadvantaged family, yet through sheer effort alone had graduated top of his class from the Empire’s most prestigious university and become a lawyer.

“Dad, is it wrong to have compassion for those who are struggling?”

At dinner that evening, Anita suddenly asked the question. Irritation flickered across Nathan’s face—who had planted such pointless doubts in his daughter’s head?

“Anita, what have I told you? I was born dirt poor. Five younger siblings lined up behind me. The situation was hopeless. The roof leaked, and in winter we survived on a thin bowl of gruel a day.”

Anita regretted asking. Her father was launching into the story she had heard a hundred times. Her mother, Miranda, rolled her eyes and sipped her wine.

“There was someone who sponsored me, who sent me to school, who gave me the chance to study. Pity? Do you think I could have succeeded with some soft, mushy feeling like that? While others wasted time on such nonsense, I seized opportunities. Who cares what people think of you? What matters is—”

“Yes, yes. Better to win another piece of bread or another candle to study by than waste time on feelings. I know.”