The Price of Three Fingers Chapter 2

The factory owner, Mr. Miller, was a good man. By the time he rushed to the hospital, my hand was already bandaged.

He squatted down, wanting to touch my hand but looking helpless, not knowing where to start.

Finally, all he could say was a heavy sigh full of heartache: "Child, you're so young. What will you do now...?"

I turned my head away, not daring to meet his eyes.

I wasn't a good kid.

I didn't deserve his sincere pity.

His wife, Mrs. Miller, came to take care of me personally. She handled everything.

She gently combed my messy hair.

She cut fruit into small pieces, warmed them up, and fed me bit by bit.

It was the first time I felt that kind of delicate, maternal tenderness.

It was completely different from how Grandma cared for me.

A coworker who came to visit whispered a warning: "Be careful. This is a honey trap. They're being nice so they can pay you less later."

I was instantly on guard.

I tried to reject their kindness.

But they continued to care for me, both physically and emotionally, ignoring my deliberate coldness.

After I was discharged, Mr. and Mrs. Miller drove me home.

Grandma held my hand, missing two fingers, and wept silently.

For a long time, she couldn't say a word, her whole body trembling with sobs.

In that moment, I started to regret using this method to get money.

The Millers were wiping tears too.

Our home was bare walls. Grandma looked jaundiced, clearly very ill.

They took out $80,000 in cash and stacked it neatly on the table.

Grandma stood up in a panic, waving her hands, terrified and unsure of what to say.

She could only look at me in silent distress.

"This is the factory's compensation for Tara. Please take it. The factory will cover future medical bills too," Mr. Miller said.

I lowered my head in shame.

This compensation far exceeded my expectations. I had consulted a lawyer, and the amount he quoted was far less than what Mr. Miller offered.

And this was just a small factory. The kind where the boss had to go out and make sales calls himself every day.

Every penny was hard-earned.

I needed money, but... I couldn't be conscienceless enough to take the extra.

Even though I wasn't sure if the current me had a conscience left.

"It's too much. I can't take this much."

Mrs. Miller patted my head and said softly, "Child, don't be shy. The road ahead is long. Take this money and learn a trade to support yourself."

I looked down, unable to wipe away my tears or speak, just stubbornly shaking my head.

I only took $30,000. I resolutely pushed the rest back to them.

Grandma looked at the $30,000 I kept in shock.

Thirty!

It was thirty thousand!

A number so painfully familiar to her.

The old lady looked confused, shocked, and then... a flash of heartbroken realization crossed her eyes.

No one else knew why Grandma suddenly burst into loud wails.

Only I kept my head down, afraid to look into their eyes.

I was afraid to see my own despicable, shameful, ugly reflection in their pupils.

In the end, the Millers couldn't beat my stubbornness. I practically kicked them out with a cold face.

I threw the $50,000 back at them.

I knew I was being rude, but I really didn't know how else to refuse such warm kindness.

Grandma cried all night.

No one was sadder than her.

I just regretted not hiding my intentions better; Grandma figured it out instantly.

The next day, we packed up and moved out of that dilapidated apartment and into the hospital.

We said goodbye to that home forever.

My only home with Grandma.

I had no home left, but I still had Grandma.

With Grandma, I still had a home.