"It might seem harsh," my mother said, her tone perfectly matter-of-fact. "But it had to be done. We can’t hand the company over to someone like him."
Shortly, I heard footsteps approaching. Struggling, I quickly pushed my wheelchair back to my room.
Mom then found me staring out the window as usual and said, "You should be resting. Your legs are injured. Why are you wheeling yourself around again?"
As she entered, her gaze drifted outside, following mine to the soccer field below, where a group of kids laughed and kicked a ball across the grass.
"Will I ever walk again?" I asked quietly, eyes vacant.
For a moment, she was stunned, caught off guard, before forcing a smile. "Of course. You just need to focus on your recovery. Don't overthink it. You'll be fine."
I sneered inwardly.
My uncle is a renowned orthopedic surgeon abroad. Handling a fracture in legs was as easy as a pie for him as he could even save severed body parts. So, if they’d wanted to, they could have flown him in to help. But they didn’t. Not once since the accident.
And I knew the truth. I heard it with my own ears.
Mom was the one who ordered the doctors to take my corneas and give them to Jed.