Liar's Redemption

Chapter 6 – A Daughter’s White Lie

Amelia reached the hospital just before visiting hours ended.

She signed her name at the nurse station and went straight to the elevator, keeping her head down. The fifth‑floor corridor smelled of disinfectant. Her footsteps sounded too loud.

Room 508 was half‑dark, the TV screen glowing blue.

“Mom," she said quietly.

Her mother turned. For a second she blinked as if she thought she was dreaming, then she smiled so hard it looked like it hurt. “Amelia?"

Amelia hurried to the bed and took her hand. The fingers were thinner now, the nails pale, but the warmth was the same as when she had held them as a child.

“It's me," Amelia said. “I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

“You lost so much weight," her mother scolded softly. “Are they not feeding you on set?"

Amelia forced a small smile. “The crew is stingy. Long days, little food. I'm fine."

“So it's true," her mother said, pride brightening her face. “You've been filming the whole time. The nurses ask if that's really my daughter on TV. I almost show off."

Six months. Not on set, but strapped to a bed under white lights.

“It was a long shoot," Amelia lied. “Location was far. No signal. I couldn't visit."

“You did what you should," her mother said. “You're young. Work is important. Don't worry about me. The nurses are kind. The doctor checks on me every day."

“Does your chest still hurt?" Amelia asked.

“Sometimes," her mother admitted. “When I think too much."

“Then don't think," Amelia said quickly. “Anything outside this room—I'll handle it."

Her mother smiled. “You sound like a real adult."

“I am an adult," Amelia tried to joke.

“In my eyes you're still the little girl hiding behind the restaurant counter," her mother said. “Remember? You were afraid of customers."

“You pushed me out to say hello," Amelia answered. “I wanted to cry."

“And now everyone recognizes you," her mother said with a small laugh. “Life is strange."

Amelia lowered her gaze so her mother wouldn't see how that line cut. Outside this room, being recognized was her worst fear.

“How is filming?" her mother asked. “Is the director fierce? Are the other actors nice?"

Images of straps, white ceilings and electric shocks flashed in Amelia's mind. For a moment she forgot how to breathe. Then she squeezed her mother's hand and forced the pictures away.

“It's fine," she said. “The director shouts, the actors complain, we all eat terrible box lunches and try not to freeze to death on outdoor shoots. Nothing glamorous."

Her mother relaxed and even chuckled. “Hearing you talk like this makes me forget I'm sick," she said.

“You're not sick," Amelia murmured. “You're just tired. When you're better, we'll go eat noodles at the little shop near the old apartment."

“You always stole extra chili," her mother said, eyes crinkling.

“I'll ask them to make it less spicy for you," Amelia replied.

Her mother yawned. “I don't want to sleep when you're finally here," she protested weakly.

“I'm not leaving," Amelia lied. “Close your eyes. I'll still be here when you wake up."

“Okay," her mother whispered.

Her fingers loosened in Amelia's grip. Within a minute she was breathing evenly again, the heart monitor beeping in a slow, steady rhythm.

Amelia sat and watched her. For the first time in months, her own breathing matched that calm pace.

When her legs started to tingle, she checked the clock. Visiting hours were almost over.

She tucked the blanket around her mother's shoulders. “I'll get you something better than hospital food," she whispered close to her ear. “Snacks, something warm. Wait for me."

Her mother didn't stir.

Amelia slipped out, pulling the door almost shut behind her.

From the end of the corridor she could see the street through the glass doors below and, across it, a strip of small shops. One bright sign belonged to a convenience store.

Her stomach knotted.

She took a disposable mask from her bag, looped it over her ears and pulled it high to cover most of her face. Then she tugged her cap lower so her hair shadowed the rest.

With the mask on, she was no one. Just a daughter buying things for her mother.

She walked out of the hospital with her head down, crossed the street and pushed open the convenience‑store door. A bell chimed.

Warm air smelled of instant noodles and coffee. A student in uniform scrolled through his phone. A tired man in work clothes stared at the drinks fridge. No one looked up.

Amelia grabbed a basket and moved quickly. Nutritional drinks. Cereal bars. Soft slippers. A scarf. Fruit candies. Each item dropping into the basket calmed her a little.

At the fridge she added two cartons of yogurt at random.

At the counter she set the basket down and reached for her wallet.

“Will that be all?" the cashier asked.

“Yes," she said, voice small behind the mask.

The scanner beeped as he passed each item over the red light.

“Your total is—"

“Excuse me," a woman behind her said. “Sorry, but… are you Amelia Scott?"

Amelia went cold.

“You look just like her," the woman went on, stepping closer. “Your eyes… it has to be you."

The student looked up from his phone. Another customer turned. The cashier paused.

“Amelia Scott?" he repeated. “The actress?"

The name hit her like ice. She heard it the way the reporters had shouted it that morning, every syllable heavy with blame.

Amelia dug her nails into her palm.

“I saw you on TV," the woman said, voice getting louder. “You admitted you framed your sister, didn't you? Poor Sophie. She almost died because of you. How could you do that?"

The student raised his phone a little, thumb hovering. “Say something," he said. “Do you regret it? Or are you just sorry you got caught?"

Shelves blurred at the edges of her vision. The buzzing lights sounded like static in her ears.

“Miss?" the cashier said carefully. “Your card."

She shoved a card onto the counter. It trembled between her fingers.

The scanner beeped. The cashier pushed the card, the receipt and two plastic bags toward her.

The woman didn't stop. “How can you still walk around like nothing happened?" she demanded. “Don't you feel ashamed at all?"

Shame was all Amelia felt. It climbed so fast it burned her throat.

“I'm sorry," she muttered, though she didn't know who she was apologizing to.

She grabbed the bags, the thin handles cutting into her hands, and turned for the door.

“Wait, Amelia!" the student called. “Just one—"

The bell clanged as she shoved the door open. Cold air hit her face. She kept her head down and ran, bags thumping against her legs, mask damp with her own breath.

She didn't stop until the hospital's sliding doors opened again and the familiar smell of disinfectant swallowed the night.

Inside, no one looked twice at her. Here she was just another relative carrying bags, not a scandal, not a headline.

Her legs shook as she waited for the elevator. In the mirrored doors she saw a pale woman with wide eyes and a disposable mask.

Monster. Crazy woman. Liar.

She swallowed hard and forced the words into silence. Not here.

The elevator dinged. She rode up to the fifth floor, the bags rustling softly at her side.

The corridor was quieter than before. As she neared Room 508, a nurse's low voice drifted out through the half‑open door.

“…I'm sorry, Mrs. Scott," the nurse was saying gently. “But if the unpaid bills aren't settled soon, the hospital may have to discharge you. We can't keep the account open like this."

Amelia stopped just before the doorway.

Through the gap she saw her mother sitting up, fingers twisting the blanket.

“I understand," her mother said after a pause. “I just thought the company was paying. They said everything was taken care of."

“The first few months were covered," the nurse replied. “But there haven't been payments recently. We've tried calling the guarantor. If nothing changes, we'll have to make other arrangements."

Her mother's shoulders sagged. “Please don't tell my daughter," she whispered. “She's working so hard. I don't want her to worry."

The plastic handles bit deep into Amelia's palms.

Working so hard.

Filming.

Every word her mother believed was a lie Amelia had given her.

Something inside her snapped. She pushed the door fully open.

“Why not?" she said, her voice coming out rough and sharp. “Why shouldn't I worry when you're talking about throwing her out of the hospital?"

Both women jumped.

The nurse straightened. “Miss Scott—"

Amelia stepped into the room, the bags of supplements and warm clothes heavy at her side, panic from the store still buzzing under her skin.

“What do you mean the bills haven't been paid?" she demanded, looking from the nurse to her mother. “Who was supposed to handle them? Why has no one taken care of this?"

Beside the bed, the heart monitor kept beeping calmly, as if nothing at all had changed.