"Why do you look so pitiful even in a feverish slumber?"
He casually sat by the bed, staring at her. Her complexion was somewhat pale, and because of the pregnancy, there was a gentleness in her features that only a mother possessed.
Suddenly, a cold breeze blew in, causing her body to shiver. He looked towards the window and realized the French window was open, and the early autumn breeze was already quite chilly.
He scoffed internally, thinking that this was why she was always sick—she wasn't a child anymore, yet she couldn't even take care of herself in such matters.
He stood up to close the window and when he returned to the bedside, he heard her muttering something. Her voice was very soft and low; he couldn't hear anything.
So, he bent down, bringing his ear close to hers, to listen to the words she was speaking.
"Mom, it really wasn't me…"
"I really don't know what happened, Mom. Do you believe me this time, please…"
"Stop hitting her, don't hit my mom anymore…"