My Sister Faked Blindness to Ruin Me

My name is Melissa Scott, the youngest chief ophthalmologist at City A Hospital. Over ten years of medical practice, I have performed more than three thousand surgeries, maintaining a success rate above 99%. My colleagues say I have a pair of "God hands," able to find a path to light within the delicate structures of the eye. But I never imagined that one day, these very hands would push me into darkness. The surgery that day was scheduled for ten in the morning, and the patient was my sister, Penny Scott. She was the long-lost true daughter of the Scott family, reunited only three months ago. As the family's "adopted daughter," I had known my place since childhood. My adoptive parents weren't unkind to me, but compared to the long-lost Penny, there was always a colder distance. Penny's left eye suffered from congenital cataracts, requiring surgery to implant an intraocular lens to restore her vision. This surgery isn't particularly difficult for me. I double-checked the preoperative exams three times; every indicator showed that Penny Scott met the criteria for surgery. Before entering the operating room, my adoptive parents held my hands and kept urging me to make sure Penny Scott's eyes would be fine. I nodded, but a strange tightness gripped my heart. The surgery went smoothly—anesthesia, incision, removal of the clouded lens, and implantation of the intraocular lens—each step carried out with perfect precision. When I finished suturing the last stitch, all the nurses in the operating room exhaled in relief. "Dr. Scott, perfect." The nurse handed me the gauze with a smile. I smiled as well, removed my mask, and prepared to wait for Penny Scott to wake up and hear the good news. But half an hour later, Penny Scott's scream from the ward shattered my calm completely. "My eye! I can't see out of my left eye!" she cried out, clutching her left eye in distress. I rushed into the ward, my heart sinking. I lifted the gauze from her eye and shone a flashlight to check her pupillary response. Strangely, her pupil reacted to light, and there were no signs of hemorrhage or damage to the retina. "Impossible—the surgery was successful. How could she be unable to see?" I murmured to myself. The adoptive parents heard the noise and came over. Seeing Penny crying bitterly, they immediately directed their accusations at me. "Melissa! Did you do this on purpose? Are you jealous that Penny came back and don't want her to succeed?" The adoptive mother pointed her finger at me, her tone sharp. I was stunned; I never expected her to say such things. "Mom, I didn't. You can check the surgery footage—I made no mistakes." I tried to explain. But the adoptive mother wouldn't listen, focusing only on comforting Penny. My adoptive father frowned, his gaze toward me filled with suspicion: "It's useless to say this now. First, let Penny undergo a full examination. If there's truly a problem with her eyes, you must take responsibility." Over the next few days, I accompanied Penny Scott through various examinations. Fundus fluorescein angiography, optical coherence tomography, visual electrophysiology tests... All results showed that Penny Scott's ocular structure was normal, the intraocular lens was well positioned, and no organic pathology could explain the blindness. Yet Penny kept insisting that her left eye was blind.