Chapter 8
Abigail's POV
As I left the perfume exhibition, the afternoon sunlight was unexpectedly bright. Despite Matthew's approval and my excitement about rejoining Seraphic Scents, a hint of unease lingered in my mind. That vague sense of pressure gradually spread through my chest, making my steps light and weak.
Instead of going straight home, I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to Hopewell Hospital. Although the pain wasn't severe, the persistent dull ache was enough to make me seek professional help. Given my condition, I preferred to err on the side of caution.
"You can drop me at the main entrance," I told the driver, reaching for my wallet and trying to ignore the slight trembling of my fingertips.
The hospital corridors were filled with the familiar smell of disinfectant—sharp, cold, yet somehow reassuring. I made my way through the winding hallways to Dr. Richardson's office, clutching the folder containing my medical records and latest test results. Its weight seemed to increase with each step.
Dr. Richardson was waiting for me. In his office, sunlight slanted through the blinds. In his fifties, with silver streaking his temples and wise, calm eyes behind his glasses, he was one of Emberfall City's most respected cardiologists. When he looked up from my test results, the creases in his brow revealed everything before he spoke.
"Ms. Rodriguez," his tone was serious yet steady, "your heart condition has clearly deteriorated. At this point, medication offers very limited benefits." He placed the charts on the desk, meeting my gaze. "We need to consider surgical intervention immediately, possibly even a heart transplant."
I sat quietly, trying to process his words. Though I had mentally prepared myself, hearing such a conclusion firsthand sent a chill through my body.
"This is a major decision," his tone softened slightly, "it would be best to have family present to discuss this with you. Perhaps your husband, or parents?"
I shook my head, "That won't be necessary. I can make the decision myself."
Dr. Richardson nodded, his eyes showing concern. "There's something else you need to understand." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "If you undergo surgery, pregnancy afterward will become impossible. Your heart couldn't handle that kind of stress—the risk would be too great."
These words hit me like a hammer. I gripped the folder tightly, feeling the edges dig deep into my palm.
Children. I had imagined having my own children countless times. During the early days of my marriage to Nicholas, I had dreamed of a little boy with his eyes, or a girl with my smile. I remembered those warm moments, those brief instances that almost made me believe in happiness.
And now, I faced an impossible choice: survival or the possibility of motherhood.
"If treatment offers hope..." I finally spoke, "I choose to live. I'm willing to give up having children."
Dr. Richardson nodded, his eyes full of sympathy. "That's a brave decision. Life always comes first."
He wrote something on a prescription pad, "We'll start you on imported medication as soon as possible to stabilize your condition and prevent further deterioration. Meanwhile, I recommend you check into the hospital soon for pre-surgical evaluation and transplant preparation."
I promised to quickly arrange my work and personal affairs before admission. As I left the hospital, the evening air carried a chill that seemed to penetrate my bones.
Even the strongest people become like helpless children when facing the uncertainty of death. In that moment, I longed for comfort, for an embrace, for someone to simply whisper that "everything will be alright." I thought of my grandmother Evelyn—she had always been my most solid support.
On my way home, I deliberately detoured to the local market to buy my grandmother's favorite handmade pastries and a bouquet of pink carnations. Since my mother's death, Evelyn had become my only true family. Every time we met, she would inquire about my life and marriage, while I always carefully avoided worrying her about my situation.
Her suburban cottage remained just as I remembered—windowsills filled with thriving potted plants, the interior permeated with a faint scent of lavender. Evelyn was busy in the kitchen, wearing a cream-colored cardigan, her movements still nimble despite her age.
"Abby!" she exclaimed as soon as I entered, her face lighting up with a warm smile. She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over to embrace me. "What a lovely surprise! And you brought flowers—they're beautiful, dear."
She looked toward the door, then glanced around, "Where's Nicholas? I thought he might come with you today. He said last time he wanted to try my baked pudding."
My heart tightened slightly. I'd been so preoccupied with my health problems that I'd almost forgotten about my marriage in name only.
"He's very busy with work lately," I forced a smile, "even on weekends. He sends his regards and promises to come next time." The words tasted bitter in my mouth.
Grandma clicked her tongue disapprovingly, "Young people these days, always using work as an excuse. You two need to spend more time together—marriage requires nurturing."
I sighed with relief. Letting her believe my marriage was happy might be a comfort to her for now. When everything was settled, I would find the right time to tell her the truth. Quickly, I changed the subject, asking about her health and how her plants were doing.
As we had tea, she studied me carefully. "Have you lost weight?" she suddenly asked, her brow furrowed with concern, "You don't look well. Are you feeling sick?"
My heart raced, "No, just work stress lately. I haven't been sleeping well."
She gently took my hand and patted it, "Don't be like your mother, keeping everything inside. Rest when you're tired, don't push yourself too hard."
I smiled gratefully, secretly thankful that Isabella had kept her promise not to tell anyone about my condition. With her personality, she would surely have told my grandmother, perhaps even the entire Jackson family. Though I understood that such a secret couldn't be kept forever, especially as my condition continued to worsen.
As night fell, Grandma packed some homemade pastries for me, "Take these and eat more." She insisted on putting the box in my hands.
Before leaving, I hugged her tightly, breathing in her lavender scent, struggling with whether to tell her everything—about my marriage, about my illness. But when I saw her standing at the door, smiling and waving goodbye, I knew it wasn't the right time.
Some burdens I had to carry alone.