The holidays were approaching, and this year, Clarissa had made up her mind—she and Clementine were going to the countryside to visit her grandfather.

  It wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  A few days ago, the doctor had examined Clementine and delivered the same frustrating news: No improvement. Her condition remained unchanged, and the supplements she took barely made a difference.

  "She's under too much stress," the doctor had said, his voice laced with concern. "Overwork has taken a toll on her health. Is your mother burdened by something?"

  Clarissa had been stunned. By now, she'd fully accepted Clementine as her mother, and if there was anything weighing on her, it could only be one thing—her past. Her biological father.

  Clarissa had heard the whispers. Clementine had gotten pregnant before marriage and had severed ties with her family because of it.

  She had seen it too—those late nights when Clementine would sit alone, staring at an old photograph, sighing as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. In the faded picture, a handsome middle-aged man held a little girl, her delicate features strikingly similar to Clementine’s. That had to be her father.

  Clarissa knew this couldn’t continue. Her mother needed closure.

  "Mom," she had said carefully that evening, watching Clementine prepare coffee. "After the holidays, I’ll buy some gifts. Let’s go visit Grandpa together."

  The words had barely left her lips when Clementine froze. The steaming water sloshed over the edge of the cup, scalding her hand.

  "Mom!" Clarissa rushed to her, dragging her to the sink. *"How could you be so careless? Look, you’ve got blisters!"*

  But Clementine barely reacted. She just looked at Clarissa, eyes unreadable, and shook her head slightly. "It’s nothing. Why would you suddenly bring this up?"

  "I’ve just noticed... you seem troubled lately. Is it because of Grandpa?"

  Clementine didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away abruptly. "I’ll go get you a fresh pot of coffee."

  "Mom, no—let me put some medicine on your hand first."

  Clarissa gently applied ointment to the burned skin, her touch careful. "Mom, what’s wrong? Why did you react like that when I mentioned Grandpa?"

  Clementine stayed quiet for a long moment, staring down at the table. Then, in a barely audible voice, she whispered, "Because... I was pregnant before marriage. I don’t have the face to see him again."

  Clarissa blinked, caught completely off guard. "Wait—what?" She gaped at Clementine, those already large eyes of hers widening even more. "But... but you always said you raised me alone because my father died!"

  Clementine’s lips parted, hesitating, before she finally nodded. "Your father is dead," she admitted. "And yes, I had you without ever getting married."

  She exhaled slowly. "When you were born, you were diagnosed with a serious illness. I was alone, desperate… I had no one. That’s why I—" Her voice faltered. "That’s why I switched you with Lyra."

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  Clementine’s hands curled into fists. "Your grandfather... I was stubborn. I went against him, and my selfishness made him so angry that his illness relapsed." Her voice broke. "How could I ever face him again?"

  Clarissa stared at her mother, at the guilt she carried so heavily on her shoulders. For some reason, something in that confession reminded her of Atticus. His past. His pain. Except, she had been luckier.

  So, without hesitation, Clarissa reached for her mother’s hand. "It’s okay, Mom. I’ll go with you." Her voice was steady, resolute. "Sometimes, the only way to truly move forward is to apologize in person. It’ll give you peace of mind. And… don’t you miss them?"

  Clementine trembled. "Clarissa..." Tears welled in her eyes, slipping down her face before she could stop them.

  She had spent so many years convincing herself that there was no going back—that she had ruined everything beyond repair. But now, looking at her daughter, she thought… maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance.

  Seeing the hesitation in Clementine’s eyes, Clarissa reached out, her fingers warm and steady. "Mom, trust me. Nothing bad will happen. I’ll be with you."

  Clementine gazed at her daughter—the beautiful, extraordinary young woman standing before her.

  Sometimes, she doubted whether Clarissa was truly her child. How could someone as strong, as radiant as her, have come from someone so weak, so cowardly?

  Clarissa looked so much like him. And like her grandfather. But not like her.

  Maybe… maybe it was time. Time for her father to see the granddaughter he never knew. Even if he didn’t acknowledge her, he wouldn’t turn his back on Clarissa.

  Taking a deep breath, Clementine made up her mind. "Alright," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "I promise. We’ll go see your grandfather together."

  Clarissa’s face broke into a bright, relieved smile.

  Three days later, their bags were packed. Clarissa was in the living room, carefully counting and sorting through the gifts she had bought.

  Clementine shook her head with a helpless sigh. "You bought so much! What’s your grandfather going to do with all this?"

  Clarissa shrugged. "They won’t go bad. And this bonsai will only grow more beautiful over time. Didn’t you say Grandpa loves gardening?"

  "Fine, fine," Clementine relented with a sigh. "I can’t win against you. Do what you want."

  Clarissa grinned, loading everything into the car.

  As she made her way downstairs, she passed by the attic and hesitated for a split second. I wonder how Atticus is doing now. A fleeting sense of longing gripped her, but she shook it off and quickly headed downstairs.

  The car rumbled down the road toward the countryside, toward the past Clementine had spent years running from.

  As they drove, Clementine spoke more than she had in a long time. She told Clarissa about her grandfather—the man who had raised her alone.

  Her mother had died giving birth to her, while her father had been in the middle of an emergency surgery, trying to save someone else’s life.

  A renowned doctor, a master of both Eastern and Western medicine, her grandfather had been sought after by the wealthy and powerful. But the one life he couldn’t save had been his own wife’s. And the guilt had broken him.

  After her mother’s death, he had given up his prestigious medical career and disappeared into the countryside, taking Clementine with him.

  But his grief had hardened into something cold and distant. Every time he looked at Clementine, he saw the woman he had lost—the woman he couldn’t save.

  He loved her, in his own way. But he had been irritable, detached, and incapable of giving her warmth. He had never disciplined her, never guided her. She had grown up feeling unwanted, undeserving.

  That guilt had followed her through life—first for her parents, and now for Clarissa.

  Her voice wavered as she spoke, and she turned her head toward the window, willing away the tears that threatened to spill.

  Clarissa saw it. There was nothing she could say that would erase the past, so she didn’t try. Instead, she reached over and gently squeezed Clementine’s hand.

  Let the past go, she thought. I’ll take care of you now. She had suffered enough. Whatever mistakes Clementine had made, whatever regrets she carried—Clarissa had long since forgiven them.

  They were halfway there when Clementine suddenly stiffened. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, her breath hitching. Then, she shook her head violently, panic flashing in her eyes.

  "Clarissa… I—" She swallowed hard. "I think… I shouldn’t go."