“Dad, I’m back. I’ve come home. I’ve come to see you…” Winifred lowered her head as she approached the cold stone monument. She had always thought she resented Gregory because he never spent time with her, preferring to be out with other women rather than being at home with her.
It was only at this moment that Winifred realized she didn’t hate Gregory. She was just unwilling to accept why he couldn’t give her a little more care and fatherly love.
In truth, he did love her. If he didn’t, why would he have kept searching for her when she left? Even on his deathbed, he kept calling her name.
Before he died, Gregory arranged everything to ensure a stable life for his daughter.
Winifred pressed her forehead against the cold tombstone, recalling the past. Every time Gregory came home, he would gently pat her head.
She used to think his actions were perfunctory and grew to dislike him touching her head as she got older. But tonight’s wind was too strong, and her body was too cold. She wished he could pat her head and hold her.
“Why didn’t you say these things earlier? Why didn’t you say them sooner… I thought you didn’t love me. I thought I wasn’t your real daughter.” Winifred cried out hoarsely, her eyes red as she clenched her fists and pounded the tombstone repeatedly, venting her grievances and unwillingness.
She rarely cried in front of Gregory; she had never cried so bitterly before. She never expected the first time would be in front of his tombstone, facing his portrait.
Her hands were already bleeding from the pounding, but she seemed unable to feel the pain and continued to hit hard. The skin on her knuckles was broken, blood streaming down, looking painful.
Could it be that she really felt no pain? When people are in deep sorrow, the pain in their hearts can dull their senses and slow their minds. For Winifred now, the pain in her heart far exceeded that of her hands.
Her phone was still on, replaying those recordings over and over. Winifred’s whole body convulsed with sobs until she finally collapsed from exhaustion.
She looked at her bleeding hand. It hurt so much, really hurt so much.
Looking at the wound on her hand, a smile appeared on her lips after reaching the peak of sadness. The smile extended from the corner of her mouth to her eyes, like a drop of ink spreading from light to dark into sorrow. She murmured about the past as if talking to herself.
“I used to think… you were like a stone-calm and easygoing on the surface but cold inside like an unheatable rock. Now… you’ve really become a stone. What did you look like when you died?”
Winifred raised her injured hand to wipe away tears from the corner of her eye but found that her face was getting wetter. She had forgotten that blood was flowing from her hand; using it to wipe her face only made it dirtier. She couldn’t imagine what she looked like now-probably very ugly-but no matter how ugly it was, it couldn’t be worse than someone close to death.
Winifred lowered her head, curling up into a ball with her face buried in her arms. She sniffled and breathed laboriously before turning sideways to look at Gregory’s portrait illuminated by the phone’s light.
The portrait looked quite handsome. Winifred had seen it in a magazine once; it mainly covered Gregory’s path to wealth, describing him as very impressive.
The photo used was taken when Gregory was thirty years old-a black suit making him look dashing. He was interviewed when he was over forty but chose a photo from when he was thirty, showing how much Gregory cared about his image.
If outsiders saw this photo, they would immediately see how much Winifred resembled her father.
Those involved are often confused; bystanders see clearly.
Gregory loved this photo so much that even his portrait used it.
Thirty years old… Winifred remembered something: Gregory was thirty when she was born. Holding the phone with trembling fingers, she pressed return and opened Gregory’s blog account. She entered his photo album but needed a password.
Winifred first tried Gregory’s birthday but couldn’t get in. After hesitating for a while, she stiffly typed in her own birthday one key at a time.
The album opened; there weren’t many photos stored inside-all were pictures of her childhood.
Flipping through them, she finally found a photo of Gregory in that black suit holding baby Winifred for a parent-child picture taken when she was just one month old.
So both the magazine and the portrait used this photo because he liked it and because it included her?
Many things could have been proven if she had just checked a little bit sooner; why did she keep ignoring them until now when it’s irreparable?
Winifred clutched the phone tightly against her chest, feeling its heartbeat as tears welled up again… When people’s minds are pushed to collapse by stimuli, they really do recall many past events.
It’s said there are no memories before five years old, yet at this moment she remembered how Dad lifted her small body onto his shoulders for horseback rides; how Gregory often held her close as a child rubbing his stubble against her face making her laugh heartily.
He called out to her: “Winifred.”
“Winifred, you’re Daddy’s little princess. Daddy will work hard to make money so you can live in a big house with many servants taking care of you-learn painting music dancing… You’ll be the happiest little princess in this world; with Daddy around whatever you want will be yours…”
What changed those initial intentions? It started well enough… like chess-one wrong move leads to another mistake after another.
Winifred forced an ugly smile while lying sideways; tears from one eye slid across the bridge of nose into another eye then overflowed from its corner soaking into hairline coolly.
She felt as if all tears shed over past nineteen years weren’t as much as tonight alone-as if trying drain every last drop dry now.
“Why say sorry at end? The one who should apologize is me-for leaving impulsively without thinking of consequences-for not seeing you one last time-for doubting you even drugging you-for causing your death…”
So this is what it feels like when family dies before your eyes-now suddenly understanding why Leland hated so deeply no wonder… no wonder he endured pretending beside all these years just for tonight’s heavy blow right?
Seeing herself now how happy must Leland be?
Indirectly causing Leland’s mother’s death then Leland using own hand killing father-they stood between two lives destined henceforth never rest until death ends all struggles between them both forevermore…
Unsteadily rising wiping hands clean against skirt feeling edge tombstone seriously almost touching person buried beneath through cold stone itself…