Ficorpio
Chapter 1
At three in the morning, the cold wind in the airport transfer hall stabbed straight through your thin coat and into your bones.
You pulled the coat tighter around yourself and stared at the flight details your mother had sent to your phone, your fingertips turning white.
Your father was dying and had asked for you to come home immediately. Your mother had booked you a flight with two connections that would take more than ten hours.
The neighboring province was only a two-hour direct flight from your hometown. Assuming the holiday rush had left few seats available, you hadn’t asked questions. You grabbed your boarding pass and plunged into the late-night crowd.
Sixteen hours of turbulence. Three takeoffs and landings. The stale air in the cabin and the nearly inedible airplane meals had drained you until you felt half-dead.
By the time you dragged your leaden legs into the hospital’s inpatient ward, leaning against the walls for support, the smell of disinfectant mingled with the faint sound of crying. Your nose stung at once.
At the room the nurse had directed you to, you immediately spotted Victoria Bennett.
She wore an elegant cream cashmere suit, her hair swept neatly into a bun, her face made up with flawless, understated makeup. Sitting beside your father’s bed, she was gently moistening his lips with a cotton swab.
She didn’t look as though she had come to say goodbye to their dying father. She looked as if she were attending a respectable family gathering.
At the sound of your footsteps, she turned. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she rose to greet you.
“Claire, you finally made it. What took you so long?”
You could barely remain standing without leaning against the doorframe. Your throat felt scorched.
“How did you get here so fast?”
You were in the neighboring province, close enough to reach home by high-speed train in two hours, yet your flight had dragged on for more than half a day.
Victoria, on the other hand, had been all the way in Europe.
She casually brushed a loose strand of hair away from her ear, her tone light and unconcerned.
“Mom booked me a direct first-class flight. I slept on the way and arrived before I knew it. I didn’t suffer at all.”
Her gaze swept over your wrinkled coat and dust-covered suitcase. Her brows drew together slightly.
“Why do you look such a mess?”
Direct flight.
First class.
The words struck your ears like red-hot needles.
You turned toward the sofa, where your mother, Margaret Bennett, was lowering her head and peeling an apple.
She didn’t stop. She didn’t even look up at you, as though you were a stranger who had wandered into the wrong hospital room.
“Mom.” Your voice came out hoarse.
Chapter 2
Only then did she lift her eyes. Her gaze skimmed briefly over your exhausted face, and her tone was as indifferent as if she were commenting on the weather.
“You’re back? Come over and see your father.”
You forced down the bitterness rising in your chest and moved toward the bed one slow step at a time.
Your father, Arthur Bennett, lay with his eyes closed, an oxygen mask covering his face. His chest rose and fell so faintly that you could barely see it. The man who had once been strong enough to lift you over his head had wasted away until he was little more than bones, his cheekbones jutting sharply beneath loose skin.
Tears flooded your eyes.
“Dad…” you choked out, your voice barely more than a sigh.
“The doctor says he has only a day or two left.” Your mother’s voice came from behind you, still carrying that detached, indifferent tone.
She finished peeling the apple, cut it into neat pieces, speared each one with a toothpick, and held the plate out to Victoria.
“Victoria, have some fruit. You must be tired after the time difference.”
Victoria accepted it naturally, picked up a piece, and slipped it into her mouth.
“I’m fine. I could lie flat in first class. It was practically like sleeping at home.”
It felt as though an invisible hand had closed around your heart, squeezing until you could hardly breathe.
You were both daughters. You had both come home to say goodbye to your dying father.
Victoria had flown back from Europe in the comfort of a direct first-class seat.
You had come from the neighboring province on the most exhausting red-eye itinerary imaginable.
And your mother cared only about whether her eldest daughter might be tired.
“Mom.” You turned and fixed her with a hard stare. “What kind of ticket did you buy me?”
Margaret froze for a moment, clearly not expecting you to press the issue. Avoiding your gaze, she continued arranging the fruit on the tray.
“Oh, come on. Flights were hard to get at a time like this. You should be grateful I found you a ticket at all. You made it home safely, didn’t you? Why are you hung up on the details?”
“Flights were hard to get?”
You laughed, the sound steeped in bitterness.
“So hard to get that Victoria could fly straight back from Europe in first class, but I had to take an exhausting multi-stop economy itinerary from the neighboring state?”
Chapter 3
“Your sister is delicate. How could she possibly handle a tiring flight like that?” Irritation sharpened Margaret’s voice. “You’re young and healthy. What difference does a little inconvenience make? Why do you always have to compare yourself to your sister? Don’t be so difficult.”
There it was again.
You had heard those words countless times, from childhood to adulthood.
Victoria was delicate, so she always got to wear the new clothes first. You were left with whatever hand-me-downs she no longer wanted.
Victoria was exhausted from studying, so the best food and fresh milk in the house were reserved for her. When you came home from school, you still had to cook dinner and do the laundry.
Victoria wanted to go overseas for graduate school. Your parents had sold everything they could and scraped together her tuition. Then they told you to drop out and work so you could help support her.
You had thought you were numb to it by now.
But standing beside your father’s hospital bed, at the edge of life and death, that thorn buried in your heart for decades still drove straight into its softest place.
“I’m not comparing myself to her.” You spoke each word carefully. Your voice trembled, but your resolve did not. “I just want to know whether, in your eyes, my time and my suffering are worth absolutely nothing.”
Your question did not bring even a trace of remorse to Margaret’s face. Instead, it set her off completely.
“Claire! Are you ever going to stop?” She shot to her feet, her voice rising sharply despite the fact that you were in a hospital room. “Your father is in this condition, and the first thing you do after coming home is pick a fight with me over a lousy plane ticket? Don’t you have a conscience?”
As usual, she brought down the accusation of failing in your filial duty.
Victoria came over and reached for your arm, adopting the familiar tone of a peacemaker.
“All right, Claire. Don’t argue with Mom.”
“She’s just upset. Maybe she didn’t notice when she booked the flights. There’s no point arguing about it now. We need to focus on discussing Dad’s final arrangements.”
“Didn’t notice?”
You shook off her hand and fixed your eyes on Margaret.
“Didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care?”
“You… How can you be so impossible?” Margaret’s lips trembled with anger. Her eyes reddened instantly, and she raised a fist to pound against her chest. “I carried you for ten months and raised you from the moment you were born. Your father is critically ill, and this is how you speak to me? Are you trying to drive me into an early grave?”
You knew this routine by heart.
First came the guilt-based manipulation. Then the tearful self-pity. In the end, she always managed to leave you wondering whether you really were the one at fault.
The old you would have softened. You would have backed down, apologized, and tried to make peace.