The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress

Citrine understood what Herschel was thinking, but she didn't agree.

She shook her head. “Grandpa, I think Uncle Nigel would rather know that you all love him than see you blame yourselves. Don't you agree?"

It hit Herschel like a thunderclap.

Of course. Compared to guilt, making the boy believe his family never cared for him was far crueler.

He'd been so wrong. All these years, he'd gotten it all wrong.

The realization washed over him. He let out a long, heavy sigh. "Citrine, I must be getting senile. You're right. It's not the guilt that hurts most-it's letting him think we never loved him. That's what's truly cruel."

Citrine smiled warmly at him. "Grandpa, it's not too late. Right now is the best time to set things right."

Herschel's mind cleared; a sense of hope lifted his spirits. But then he suddenly remembered something, and his face darkened. “Even if I want to clear things up, Nigel might not even give me the chance. You probably don't know this, but today is only the second time since everything happened that Uncle Nigel has come back for a family dinner."

"The first time, he just came to pack his things and to let us know he'd quit his job at the hospital."

"After that incident, he blocked every single one of us-deleted our numbers, erased all contact. He never came home. We have no way of reaching him."

Citrine tried to reassure him. "Don't worry, Grandpa. If you're willing to wait, the chance to explain will come."

"Wait?" Herschel echoed, surprised.

Citrine's voice was gentle and calm. "In a month Crestwood's art gallery is hosting an exhibition. Artists from

all over the world are submitting ne

their work. This isn't just a show-there'll be judges, and one painting will win the International Art Príze." noveldrama

Just the mention of painting made Herschel bristle.

He let out a scornful huff. "I honestly don't see what's so great about painting. He really likes it that much? And what good is some so-called international art prize, anyway?"

Back when Nigel quit the hospital, determined to paint, Herschel had been furious. Nigel had been a warm, cheerful young man, but after he started painting, he grew withdrawn, almost unrecognizable.

Herschel had always hated Nigel's obsession with art, and watching him waste away only made him angrier.

Seeing Herschel's frustration, Citrine couldn't help but laugh softly. She spoke earnestly, "Grandpa, painting is a way to express what's inside Have you ever thought that Uncle Nigel didn't leave medicine for art just out of passion?"

"If not passion, then what?" Herschel asked, confused.

"After that incident, you said he stopped talking to the family for a long time, then moved out. Is it possible he's struggling with something like autism?"

"Autism?" Herschel was taken aback.

"People with autism often shut themselves off, avoid communication, and don't listen to others. They get lost in their own world. Maybe Nigel left his hospital job because his symptoms got so severe it was affecting his life."

"I noticed Uncle Nigel's behavior was

a lot like someone with autism."

From the moment she met him, Citrine had sensed something different about Nigel. The more she observed, the more convinced she became. Now, her words reflected her careful, quiet deductions.

Herschel was stunned. He'd never realized his son might have developed autism because of what happened. If he'd known, he would have done everything in his power to make things right.