Chapter 5 The heart breaking blame

The following morning, I woke up feeling slightly better. The exhaustion still clung to me, but my body seemed to be recovering. I bathed and dressed quickly, then reached for my phone, dialing my mom's number. I didn't know what the next hour would bring, or where I'd be in the next few moments. My heart felt heavy with fear and anxiety, but I needed to hear her voice-at least before everything went completely wrong.

When she picked up immediately, I felt a small flicker of comfort. It was as if she knew I'd call.

"Mom, good morning! How are you?" I asked, doing my best to sound normal, though my voice trembled slightly.

"I'm doing well, dear. How about you? How's your boss? Is he doing okay?" she asked, her concern evident.

I took a deep breath. "I'm fine, Mom. Everything is fine here." But I could feel the lie hang in the air between us.

I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't burden her with the weight of what was happening. Not now. She already had enough to worry about. I just needed to hear her calm voice. It was the only thing that made me feel remotely safe.

There was a knock at the door, interrupting my thoughts. "Come in," I called out, my stomach fluttering with unease.

The door opened, and the house manager stepped inside, his face as impassive as ever. "Good morning, Miss Joya," he said, his tone professional, though I could sense the underlying urgency in his voice.

"Good morning, sir," I replied, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

He didn't waste time with pleasantries. "The boss's family has arrived at the airport. They're heading straight to the hospital now. You need to get ready. We'll be leaving in fifteen minutes."

I felt a knot form in my stomach. "Okay," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to leave, but before he closed the door, he added, "Please be quick. We don't have much time."

As the door clicked shut, I stood frozen for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest. The weight of what was happening settled heavily on my shoulders. Mr. Christopher's family. The very thought of meeting them sent a shiver down my spine. What would they think of me? What if they blamed me for his condition? A thousand terrible scenarios played in my mind. What if they thought I had something to do with it?

I paced the room, running my hands through my hair, trying to calm myself. But with every passing second, the anxiety grew more overwhelming. I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had passed. I only had five minutes left.

I stood by the window, looking out at the tranquil garden below. It felt like a different world-one I couldn't reach. The calmness of the outside world only made my inner turmoil more intense. Taking a deep breath, I tried to steady myself. I needed to face whatever came next.

By the time we left for the hospital, it felt as if the minutes had stretched into hours. I couldn't shake the sense of impending doom that seemed to follow me. We arrived at the hospital at precisely 8:00 AM. My legs felt like lead as I stepped out of the car, the hospital's stark, sterile facade looming before me. My pulse quickened, and my thoughts scattered. What was I even supposed to say to them?

The house manager led me inside, his footsteps echoing in the sterile hallways. He informed me that Mr. Christopher's parents were already in his room, but they would see me once they were finished.

I sat down in the same spot as yesterday, my hands trembling in my lap. My legs bounced nervously, a habit I couldn't control. Every minute that passed felt like an eternity. My stomach growled loudly-an uncomfortable reminder that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. The hunger was gnawing at me, but I couldn't think about food right now. Not when everything felt so uncertain.

The house manager noticed my discomfort and, without a word, led me to the cafeteria. He bought me a plate of food and placed it in front of me. I thanked him softly, my hands shaky as I picked up the fork. I ate quickly, almost desperately, as though the food might give me some semblance of strength. I needed to be strong, I told myself. I had to face whatever came next, even if I wasn't ready.

I was halfway through the meal when I heard footsteps approaching. My heart skipped a beat, and I looked up, only to find Mr. Christopher's parents standing behind me. His father's glare was ice-cold, his expression a mask of fury.

"Our son is in there, fighting for his life," his father snapped, his voice dripping with disdain. "And here you are, eating like nothing is wrong. You probably put him in that condition, didn't you? Well, eat all you want. You'll need the strength when I throw you in jail for what you've done."

His words cut through me like a knife. I froze, the fork still in my hand, but I couldn't bring myself to take another bite. The food turned to ash in my mouth. I felt my vision blur as tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't even respond.

I dropped the fork and collapsed onto the floor, unable to hold back the flood of emotions. Sobbing uncontrollably, I cried out, "I didn't do it! I swear, I didn't!" But no one was listening. My voice was lost in the cold, sterile air of the hospital.

I wondered, as I sat there broken and alone, who would ever believe me? Who could speak for me when the evidence seemed to be stacked so high against me? Would anyone ever give me the chance to explain? Or was my fate sealed the moment I stepped into this hospital?