"Mother Atkinson, are you feeling better?"
"Yes."
"Your hand is injured, let me feed you."
"Okay."
That day had been the most harmonious she had ever spent with Forsythia Brown.
Only this harmony seemed to have arrived too late.
"Forsythia."
"Yes?"
"Do you believe in karma in this world?"
"I do."
"Me too, I believe. So, if there is any retribution, let it fall upon me, Eleanor Spencer Atkinson, and not onto the head of my son."
Then, she slowly got out of bed and knelt down in front of Forsythia.
"Mother Atkinson, what are you doing? Please get up," Forsythia said, anxious to help her up.
To Forsythia, she had always been a wicked witch. Well, she would remain so. What could be more important than her son being alive?
Even if Forsythia could not accept it, she had to persuade Forsythia to accept it!
She stayed on her knees, clutching Forsythia's hand tightly, and said, "No, Forsythia, I have a request. If you don't agree, I won't stand up."
