Chapter 1The Moment We Broke Up

My car crashed, and I was rushed to the hospital. Patrick Reed came, signed a paper, and left.

He said there was a sudden family emergency, leaving me, with a broken leg, alone at the hospital.

Coming out of surgery, I saw his stepsister post on social media:

“Just a sprained ankle, apparently family gets so worried they overreact.”

The picture showed Patrick’s back as he made her pig’s trotters soup, geotagged in the next city. She even directly forwarded it to our family and friends group chat, wanting to embarrass me, his official girlfriend.

I smiled, and replied magnanimously:

“Marry the man who makes you soup; making him family is true kinship!”

* * *

I have no family. I accompanied Patrick for seven years in the big city, just the two of us. When he rushed to sign the surgery consent form, a warmth welled up in my chest. I felt like I finally had family protection too.

The next second, he mumbled, “Something came up at home,” and hurried away. He didn’t even glance at me, let alone ask about my injuries. Before I could say anything, his figure had already vanished into the bustling hospital corridor.

Coming out of surgery, I was about to text him to say I was alright. The first thing I saw was Eleanor’s post, forwarded to the family and friends group chat. Patrick, wearing an apron, a doting expression on his face, was making pig’s trotters soup. And her caption:

“Just a sprained ankle, apparently family gets so worried they overreact.”

I instinctively shifted my right leg, which was fractured and in a cast. The anesthesia was just wearing off, and it hurt terribly. I called Patrick, crying, and we started arguing.

He was extremely impatient, scolding me just like in all our previous arguments. “Eleanor is my stepsister. Can’t you stop being so dramatic?!”

“Why didn’t I notice you were so delicate before? It’s just a minor car accident, isn’t it?”

Eleanor’s playful laugh came through the phone. “Patrick, we’re having a family meal. Don’t pick up calls from outsiders!”

My retort, “She’s not even related to you by blood,” never made it out before Patrick coldly hung up.

I cried until my chest ached and felt heavy. I immediately blocked Patrick’s number. I didn’t want to bother my friends, so I hired a caregiver myself, enduring the curious whispers of other patients in the ward, and awkwardly stayed for over half a month.

The day before my discharge, Patrick asked a friend to message me. “Darling, I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

It was a sign of reconciliation. Patrick and I had been together for ten years, and he was always like this. During arguments, he would hurt me recklessly, then act as if nothing had happened and treat me well again. And I never held it against him, never brought up old scores. So he never cared if I was hurt by his repeated actions. After all, I would always smile, forgive him, and tolerate him.

But this time, I was completely disappointed in him. I thought he would become my family, desperately seeking a moment of warmth from him. But from beginning to end, I was just an outsider to him.

I unblocked Patrick, and simply replied with my discharge time and room number. Patrick, uncharacteristically, replied instantly. “I’ll be there on time tomorrow to pick you up, darling.”

“Darling, I’ll bring you pig’s trotters soup that I made myself, okay?”

If it were before, I would have been touched by his quick reply, eager to playfully demand things from him. But this time, I wasn’t interested in replying. I just turned off my phone and went to sleep.