Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 44

Chapter 44

It was still her grandmother who had stayed by her side in the hospital, tending to her day and night…

Scene after scene from the past played through her mind, especially when she thought about Theodore proposing to her.

Her parents had been over the moon. Their daughter, with her limp, had somehow managed to land a perfect husband–like a golden ticket falling from the sky. All they cared about was calculating how much they could get out of the wedding; anything beyond that never crossed their minds.

Only her grandmother had taken her hand and said softly, “Emmie, no matter what happens, remember to love yourself first and love yourself the most…”

Had she already seen it then? Known this wasn’t a good match, but simply couldn’t stop her?

Staring out the window, Emma felt her eyes sting. Grandma, I’m sorry. I really haven’t loved myself the way you wanted me to…

By the time the car pulled up to her grandmother’s house, night had completely fallen. Warm yellow light glowed from the windows, as if someone had lit a lantern right

inside her chest.

She couldn’t help it–her eyes welled up again.

Emma got out, walked into the yard, and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Her grandmother’s voice called out from inside, footsteps shuffling

closer.

When the door swung open and her grandmother saw her standing outside, her eyes lit up with pure delight. “Emmie! What are you doing here?”

Emma’s eyes burned again; she was terrified she’d start crying and scare her grandmother. She threw her arms around her, nuzzling close. “Grandma, I saw the grapes you sent me and started missing you…”

“You silly girl…” Her grandmother was all smiles, glancing behind her to see if Theodore had come. “You’re here by yourself tonight?”

“Yeah! Theodore’s busy, but I can come on my own.” Emma took her grandmother’s hand and led her inside. “Grandma, I’m starving. Do you have anything to eat?”

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Her grandmother gave her a playful scold. “What do you want?”

“I just want your homemade chicken noodle soup.” Funny, but in all her twenty–some years, Emma realized she could only ever speak so freely and shamelessly in front of her grandmother.

“Wait right here!” her grandmother said, practically humming as she bustled off to the

kitchen.

Emma wandered into the living room and looked over the photos on the TV

stand–four in total.

One was a family portrait: her grandparents, her parents, and herself. One was a childhood photo of her, beaming with a dance trophy in her hands. Another was of her aunt, now gone. And the last one–a snapshot of her, Theodore, and her grandmother together.

That photo was taken four years ago.

The village head had called, telling her that her grandmother had taken a fall. She’d panicked, grabbed her bank card and whatever cash she could find, and rushed home. It was Theodore who had gone with her, all the way back to the village, who’d helped get her grandmother to the hospital.

When had she decided, no matter how distant Theodore became, she’d stick by him for the rest of her life?

It was right then.

Later, she learned the village head had called her father first, but he’d been busy playing cards and told them to just take her grandmother to the local clinic–no help,

no concern.

Theodore, on the other hand, could have easily sent an assistant or just wired over money for the hospital bills. But he didn’t. He went with her, helped carry her grandmother, stayed the whole time.

After her grandmother was discharged, the three of them took that photo together.

Emma had snapped it on her phone and sent it to her grandmother, who’d printed it out and put it in a frame.

“Dinner’s ready! Chicken noodle soup, just like you asked!” Her grandmother called, beaming as she brought out a steaming bowl. She teased, “You’re all grown up now, but some things never change–you always want my chicken noodle soup.”

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Emma grinned, inhaling the savory aroma, and dug in.

She really was starving.

She’d barely eaten a thing at her parents‘ house earlier. In no time, she’d finished every last drop of soup, not a trace left in the bowl.

Only after she set her bowl down did her grandmother finally ask, “Did you two have a fight?”