Chapter 7 – Love So Deep, Pain So Sharp
1258 Words
Harold Watson stood at the hospital gates, his eyes fixed longingly on the tall building before him.
He had learned from the news that Summer was being treated here.
For more than twenty days, Harold had come to stand by the hospital entrance every few days. He couldn’t help worrying about his daughter’s condition—he wanted so badly to see her. Yet, every time he thought about how it was his own weakness that led him to give her away all those years ago, shame tightened around his heart, and he could not bring himself to face her.
So this was what it meant—love so deep, pain so sharp.
Lost in guilt, Harold had no idea that the daughter he missed day and night was standing across the street, watching him quietly.
Beside Summer was a fruit vendor pulling a small cart. The owner, noticing her gaze lingering on the man across the road, asked curiously,
“Miss, do you know that man?”
Summer was dressed plainly, so the vendor didn’t recognize her.
The original Summer, being a celebrity, had always dressed fashionably. But now, Summer Watson preferred comfort over glamour—today she wore a light gray tracksuit, and a black silk scarf covered the lower half of her face.
Even if the president of her fan club were standing right in front of her, they probably wouldn’t recognize her.
When Summer didn’t answer, the vendor didn’t mind. He went on talking to himself,
“That guy’s strange. Every time he comes, he just stands across the road like that—never once steps inside. Don’t know what he’s so worried about.”
At the word ‘every time,’ something in Summer’s heart tightened.
She asked softly, “He comes often?”
The vendor, encouraged by her response, nodded.
“Yeah. Every two or three days. Poor fella—being lame like that, it can’t be easy going back and forth.”
Summer’s gaze dropped to his empty pant leg fluttering in the breeze.
Harold hesitated for a long while, but in the end, his longing overcame his fear. Gripping his cane tightly, he hobbled across the road toward the hospital entrance.
The fruit vendor watched, surprised.
“Well, would you look at that—today he’s actually going in?”
But as Harold reached the hospital gates, he suddenly stopped and turned back.
The vendor raised an eyebrow, popped a grape into his mouth, and sighed,
“Guess not, after all.”
Summer saw Harold turning toward the fruit stand, so she quickly stepped aside and lifted her umbrella to shield her face.
When Harold reached the stand, the vendor straightened up eagerly.
“What’ll it be today?”
“How much for the cherries?” Harold asked hoarsely. Years of drinking had left his voice rough and cracked.
“Cheaper this year,” the vendor said after glancing at his leg. “Fifty-five a pound.”
Harold touched the pocket of his worn trousers and took out a fifty. Licking his dry lips, he asked softly,
“Can you give me a pound for fifty?”
The vendor’s heart softened. “Ah, fine. Fifty it is. I’ll give you a good bag.”
As he began to pick through the cherries, he asked, “I’ve seen you around here a few times. Got family in there?”
Harold nodded faintly. “Mm.”
“What’s the illness?”
“Burn injuries.”
“Oh? Who is it?”
“A relative’s daughter. Just a teenager... her face got burned.”
The vendor sighed. “Poor kid. Scarred that young... she’ll have a hard time finding someone to marry.”
Then, remembering something, the vendor added,
“You know, a young actress also got burned recently—she’s being treated here too. I’ve seen her fans hanging around the hospital for days. She’s worse off than your relative’s girl, I’d say.”
Harold didn’t answer, but his eyes glistened with tears.
Seeing the man’s sorrow, the vendor said no more. He handed Harold the bag.
“Here you go—exactly a pound.”
“Thank you,” Harold murmured, handing over the money before limping toward the hospital once more.
Summer turned slightly, watching his lonely, staggering figure recede into the crowd. Her expression was complicated.
When the original Summer had been separated from Harold, she was only three.
Her memories were vague, but fragments remained—enough for Summer to piece together the truth.
Back then, the orphanage staff had found a dozen families willing to adopt her—families named Liu, Huang, Xie... But the little girl had chosen the Watsons.
Everyone praised her for her clever choice, for picking the wealthiest family.
Only she knew the truth: she had chosen them simply because they shared her father’s surname—Watson.
At that time, she believed that all who bore that name must be good people.
It took Victor and Clara fifteen years to teach her the cruel truth—not every Watson was good. But Harold Watson always was.
Summer hesitated for a long time before quietly following behind him.
Harold took the elevator to the burns ward. As he stepped into the corridor toward the rooms, a nurse stopped him.
“Sorry, sir,” she said kindly, “that area is for VIP patients only. Without authorization from the patient or family, you can’t go in.”
Harold froze.
VIP rooms?
He looked down at himself—his clean but faded shirt, his loose, ill-fitting trousers, the straw hat on his head, and the cane under his arm.
The word “poor” might as well have been written on his forehead.
It was no wonder they stopped him.
Unable to meet his daughter, Harold felt a strange sense of relief.
He handed the bag of cherries to the nurse and said politely,
“Miss, could you please help me give these to the patient?”
That child had always loved cherries.
When she was little, she could eat a whole bowl at once—but since she was so young, Harold had always removed the pits by hand before feeding them to her.
The nurse glanced at the cherries and finally nodded.
“What’s the patient’s name?”
Harold looked around nervously, as if afraid someone might hear and embarrass her.
In a low voice, he said, “Summer Watson.”
The nurse had seen plenty of Summer’s fans these days, so she naturally assumed Harold was one of them.
She thought, amused, This girl really is popular—even an old disabled uncle came to see her.
“You’re her fan, huh?” she said kindly. “Summer’s already been discharged. You should head home.”
“She’s... discharged?”
“Yes, just recently.”
Harold stood there in silence for a long moment.
Then, with no choice, he turned around and left, still holding the bag of cherries.
The elevator was crowded on the way down.
He stood at the front, unaware that Summer was quietly standing at the very back.
When he stepped out of the hospital again, Harold passed the fruit stall and paused.
“Boss,” he asked softly, holding up the bag, “I didn’t touch these. Can I return them?”
The vendor blinked, stunned.
He’d been selling fruit outside this hospital for years—
and this was the first time anyone had ever tried to return fifty dollars’ worth of untouched fruit because they couldn’t give it away.
- Writer
