The Due Date of Justice

My period has been delayed for a full two weeks. During this time, occasional mild heaviness in my lower abdomen and morning nausea gave me a vague suspicion, but I didn't dare confirm it. My fingertips brushed over the appointment record on my phone; the cold touch of the screen did nothing to calm my racing heart. The words "City First Hospital Gynecology" felt like a door to the unknown, filling me with both hope and anxiety. Pushing open the heavy glass doors of City First Hospital, a strong smell of disinfectant immediately hit me, mixed with a faint scent of medicine. This is the most familiar scent I've encountered since becoming a caregiver, yet at this moment, it inexplicably makes me nervous. A fairly long line stretched before the registration window. I quietly clutched my ID card and waited, then found a corner spot in the waiting area to sit. The electronic screen on the wall kept scrolling appointment information. The long wait gradually wore down my patience, and my fingers unconsciously twisted the edge of my clothes. "Daisy Lawrence?" A familiar yet grating voice rang out behind me. I spun around abruptly; blood rushed to my head, and every hair on my body stood on end. Carlos Jackson stood there, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit that made him look even more mature and composed than he did five years ago. But the coldness and selfishness in his eyes had not diminished in the slightest with the passage of time. The woman beside him affectionately linked her arm with his, a creamy white dress draping over her slightly rounded belly. That exquisitely made-up yet harsh face belonged to my half-sister Viola Lawrence—the woman who ruined the first half of my life. Viola's makeup was flawless, her eyeliner slightly lifted, and the look in her eyes was one of unabashed mockery and pride, as if I were nothing more than dust beneath her feet, trampled at will. "Daisy, what are you doing here?" She deliberately raised her voice, making sure everyone in the waiting room could hear her. "Could it be that you're working as a caregiver in a rehabilitation center, worn out from looking after those patients every day?" Everyone's eyes turned sharply toward me, a mix of curiosity and sympathy. Those gazes pierced me like needles, leaving me uneasy all over, my fingers clenching tightly into fists. I do work as a caregiver in a rehabilitation center, taking care of elderly and disabled patients daily. Though it's tough, this job is my lifeline after the divorce, and the dignity I've earned with my own hands. Carlos Jackson frowned, his face twisted into an expression of painful anguish, his voice dripping with sickeningly hypocritical sympathy: "Daisy, there's no need to make things so hard on yourself. Look at you—you've even lost weight." As he spoke, he took a black bank card from a custom-made genuine leather wallet and handed it to me. Under the light, the bank's emblem glinted coldly. "There's 500,000 in here. It should be enough for you to live on for a while." "Quit your job and get some rest. Stop doing that kind of servant work—it's embarrassing us." His tone was laced with condescending arrogance. Staring at that card, I was overwhelmed with bitter irony; my stomach churned violently. Five years ago, he and Viola Lawrence conspired to frame me, forcing me to sign the divorce papers. Back then, he wasn't nearly this generous—he even tried to seize the belongings my mother left behind. He coldly said I had an "immoral personal life" and forced me to walk away with nothing. Now, hypocritically handing me the bank card, he's only trying to show off his "sentimentality" in front of Viola. "No, thank you." I spoke coldly, my voice trembling slightly from suppressed anger as I turned aside, wanting to avoid them. I didn't want any further involvement with this shameless couple. "Daisy Lawrence!" Carlos Jackson suddenly grabbed my wrist, his fingers squeezing so hard it hurt, as if he wanted to crush my bones. "Am I giving you face? Stop pretending to be so high and mighty!" Just then, faint groans came from around the corridor corner nearby—broken, intermittent, and filled with obvious pain. My professional instincts kicked in instantly. I followed the sound and saw an elderly lady with graying hair standing there, leaning on a cane. Her body wobbled as if she might fall at any moment, her face etched with pain. I instinctively pulled my hand away from Carlos Jackson's grip and quickly rushed over to support the old woman's arm. Her arm was thin and frail, trembling slightly from the effort. "Are you all right? Do you feel unwell anywhere?" "Which floor is your ward on? Let me help you back." I softened my voice, full of concern—a habit I developed over more than two years working as a caregiver. The elderly woman gratefully took my hand; though rough, it was warm. She kept saying, "Thank you, truly a kind-hearted person. My ward is on the third floor, room 302." I carefully supported the woman, taking each step slowly and steadily, completely ignoring the ugly expressions on Carlos Jackson and Viola Lawrence's faces behind me, as well as Viola's low, mocking whisper, "Playing the good person act." After safely escorting the woman back to her ward and handing her over to her family, my phone suddenly rang. The screen lit up with the name "Siegfried Zimmerman," and instantly, my heart steadied.