# NO LONGER A STRANGER

## CHAPTER 1: THE FOUR-HOUR WAIT

A week before our wedding, I took my father to my fiancé’s hospital for a gastroscopy under sedation.

My father had woken up extremely early. He shaved, put on a crisp white dress shirt, and even wore a brand-new pair of shoes. Clutched tightly in his calloused hand was our queue ticket.

“If your fiancé is busy, sweetie, let’s just forget it,” my father whispered gently. “We shouldn’t interrupt his work.”

I patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Dad. I booked our appointment online well in advance. It won’t bother him at all.”

Having fasted since five in the morning, by eleven o’clock my father’s legs were visibly trembling from fatigue.

I whipped out my phone and texted Julian Vance:

*[Dad can barely stand anymore. How many more patients are ahead of us?]*

It took a long time for his response to pop up:

*[Wait in line according to the standard procedure.]*

We waited another agonizing hour, thinking our turn was finally next. Yet, the nurse called in a mother and daughter who had only just arrived and sat down beside us.

Through the half-open office door, I overheard the daughter’s sweet voice ask:

“Dr. Vance, who was that waiting outside? Is it alright if we take their turn?”

Julian replied smoothly:

“Of course. I barely know those two outside—they’re just distant acquaintances. It’s no big deal.”

I looked down at the crumpled queue ticket in my palm, soaked with my father’s nervous sweat.

Years ago, the tuition fees for Julian to finish medical school and earn his doctorate were paid entirely out of my father’s pocket.

With our wedding only five days away, he now referred to us as “distant acquaintances.”

I rolled the ticket into a ball, stuffed it deep into my coat pocket, and helped my father out of the clinic toward a nearby diner.

The moment we sat down, I pulled out my phone and sent a mass message to our family and friends:

*”The wedding is canceled.”*

—

Breakfast passed in heavy, stifling silence.

My father sipped his oatmeal, repeatedly trying to soothe me:

“Julian definitely didn’t mean it, Maya. Don’t ruin your relationship over such a tiny misunderstanding. Listen to your old man—the wedding goes on as planned.”

I said nothing. I simply transferred the freshly fried hash brown from my plate onto his.

Back in our hometown, my father ran a small breakfast diner. He woke up long before dawn every single day to knead dough, wrap dumplings, boil soy milk, and fry pastries.

Julian had accepted every single tuition check with utmost ease, but he had never once asked where that money came from.

Those stacks of crumpled five- and ten-dollar bills in my father’s register were covered in grease and flour. But far thicker than those stains were the deep, coarse calluses and burn scars covering my father’s working hands.

Every time I visited home, I urged him: *Dad, please retire.*

He would wipe the sweat from his forehead with a ragged towel and laugh warmly:

*”I’ll retire once I save up enough for your house deposit, sweetheart.”*

Earlier this year, he kept complaining about chronic stomach pain. I brought it up with Julian, asking if we could use his hospital staff privilege to schedule my father for a quick gastroscopy.

Julian had refused with a stern, righteous face:

“I’m a Chief Resident. How can I set a bad precedent by sneaking family through the back door?”

At the time, I thought he was right to be ethical. So for this visit, I booked a public appointment a week in advance and reminded Julian countless times.

Every single time, he had barely raised his head, muttering a dismissive *”Got it.”*

As it turned out, *”Got it”* didn’t mean he remembered. It didn’t mean he cared. It was merely a hollow response from a man who never had any intention of prioritizing us.

—

After taking my father home, I booked another appointment at a different medical center across town.

Until seven o’clock that evening, Julian didn’t call or text once. He never asked whether my father had gotten his procedure done or if we needed anything.

By eight o’clock, the dinner I had cooked had gone completely cold, and he still wasn’t home.

I dialed his number. It rang twice before he hung up on me.

I texted: *[When are you coming home?]*

Silence.

As I picked up my fork to eat, my father gently pressed my wrist down.

“It’s impolite to eat without him, Maya. Maybe Julian is stuck in an emergency surgery…”

Under the dining light, his frail smile crinkled the lines around his eyes. His graying hair looked painfully stark.

Swallowing the bitter ache in my throat, I set my fork back down.

My phone chimed with a notification from social media. I opened it.

A photo flashed on the screen: Julian was making a victory sign, laughing broadly alongside that same mother and daughter in a high-end restaurant, surrounded by his hospital colleagues and a table overflowing with expensive dishes.

A mutual nurse friend had tagged me in the comments:

*[Hey Maya! Dr. Vance is treating his childhood sweetheart to dinner! How come you’re not here?]*

I stared at the screen until it went black, then typed out four words:

*[Perhaps I’m not worthy.]*

Putting my phone face down, I told my father, “He’s out having dinner with his colleagues. We don’t need to wait.”

My father’s hand paused over the table, but he quickly forced another comforting smile. “Networking with colleagues is important for his career, sweetheart. If we can’t help him professionally, the least we can do is be understanding.”

I lowered my head and chewed my food, but every bite felt like swallowing crushed glass.

Before I could finish my meal, my phone rang.

Julian’s voice came through the line, colder than ice:

“Delete that comment right now.”

—

## CHAPTER 2: THE REVELATION

I gripped the phone tightly and stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

“My social media is full of colleagues and department heads!” Julian snapped through the receiver. “When you post passive-aggressive trash like that, what are people supposed to think of Phoebe? She grew up with me, and her mother is my godmother!”

I cut him off, my voice trembling:

“So because of *her*, you stole the appointment slot my father and I stood in line for four hours to get?”

The line went dead silent, as if he had been choked.

“My father was dripping with cold sweat, his legs shaking, just trying to get his stomach checked!” I shouted, tears finally spilling over. “Those two were drinking tea, eating snacks, and only needed a routine blood pressure check—something any triage nurse could do! Yet you gave them our spot?!”

Sounding caught and infuriated, his voice exploded:

“Your father stands on his feet for ten hours a day at his diner! He does it every day! Why is he suddenly acting so fragile today?!”

“You’re making a massive scene over a simple queue number?! Do you really have to be this petty and narrow-minded?!”

“I’m petty?!” I let out a bitter laugh. “If I were petty, I wouldn’t have spent the evening cooking dinner for you! What about you, Julian? Since my father arrived, you haven’t taken him out once. Yet you rush to play the devoted son for someone else, handing out VIP treatment and buying lavish dinners!”

“Enough!” Julian roared until his voice cracked. “Maya! Look at yourself right now—you’re utterly repulsive! If you keep throwing these unreasonable tantrums, we don’t need to have this wedding at all!”

He hurled his ultimatum, expecting me to back down as usual. I stayed silent.

Suddenly, the bedroom door creaked open.

Seeing the deep sorrow in my father’s eyes as he stood in the doorway, I panicked and slammed the phone shut.

“Maya, please don’t fight with Julian,” my father murmured softly. “My stomach doesn’t even hurt anymore, really. Look, I’m fine!”

To prove it, he patted his own abdomen gently.

But I knew the reality. Men in their sixties were at high risk for gastric cancer.

Just last month, while dropping off lunch for Julian at the hospital, I had passed a gurney carrying a patient who had just passed away from late-stage stomach cancer under a stark white sheet.

Thinking of my father’s irregular eating habits and his frequent complaints of stomach pain, my heart had pounded with sheer terror.

When I had voiced my fears back then, Julian had simply mocked me, calling me a paranoid hypocrite.

Recalling that moment, I forced a tight smile and reassured my father:

“Alright, Dad. I won’t fight with him.”

“Good…” my father nodded weakly. “When he comes back… talk to him gently, okay?”

Looking at the faint hope in his weary eyes, I dug my fingernails deep into my palms and whispered, “Okay.”

—

Just as the words left my mouth, the front door clicked open.

Julian walked in holding several luxury shopping bags. Stepping in right behind him were the mother and daughter.

Without throwing a single glance toward my father, Julian bent down, pulled two brand-new pairs of plush winter slippers out of the shoe cabinet, and handed them to the guests.

In that instant, a cold realization struck me.

I finally understood why he had snatched a new pair of slippers out of my father’s hands yesterday.

At the time, Julian had sneered:

*”Old people often carry foot fungus. Just let him wear those ratty old rubber sandals—he can throw them away when he leaves.”*

Yesterday, my father had barely set one foot inside our apartment, and Julian was already plotting to kick him out.

Rage boiled in my chest, and I took a step forward to confront him.

My father quickly caught my sleeve, pulling me back and silently pleading with his eyes for me to stay quiet.

He rubbed his calloused hands together, stooping his shoulders, and offered Julian an apologetic smile:

“Julian is right! Old sandals are much more comfortable anyway. I prefer them! Let’s not fight over small things.”

My entire body shook with suppressed fury. My father held my hand tightly—so tightly it hurt. He was begging me to endure it.

After the guests changed their shoes, Julian stood tall and announced nonchalantly:

“Maya, tell your father to find a motel down the street for tonight. We have guests staying over, and there’s no room for him here.”

*”Your father.”*

Ever since yesterday, that was how he addressed him.

Years ago, when he was taking my father’s hard-earned money for tuition, he respectfully called him “Uncle Tang.” Now that he was a prestigious Chief Resident, he demoted him to an unwelcome “your father.”

Before I could speak, Julian gestured toward the woman and her daughter. “This is my godmother, Mrs. Crain, and her daughter, Phoebe.”

Suppressing my disgust, I forced out a cold greeting: “Hello, Mrs. Crain. Hello, Phoebe.”

Mrs. Crain didn’t reply. Instead, she marched up to me and delivered a resounding **SLAP** straight across my face.

“You shameless brat!” she barked. “Who do you think you are?!”

“You aren’t even close with my godson! How dare you sneak into his apartment while he’s not around?!”

—

## CHAPTER 3: THE BREAKING POINT

The force of the blow left my head spinning and my cheek burning with sharp pain.

Holding my face, it took me several seconds to process what had just happened. Enraged, I stepped forward to fight back.

Julian immediately lunged forward, placing himself as a human shield in front of the two women.

“Maya! Stop!” Julian yelled at me. “My godmother has a fiery temper! She didn’t mean it!”

Phoebe sneered from behind his back, her voice dripping with venom: “Julian, don’t hold her back! A shameless woman like her deserves to be put in her place!”

Mrs. Crain pointed a finger directly at my nose, her voice screeching through the apartment:

“Exactly! If you two were actually close, why didn’t my godson invite you to dinner tonight?! I’ve seen plenty of gold-digging tramps like you trying to climb the social ladder!”

As she screamed, she lunged forward again to attack me.

Julian held my arms behind my back, actively restraining me while allowing the older woman to swing freely.

Seeing me pinned, my father threw his frail body in front of me to block the blow.

*SLAP!*

A sharp, violent crack echoed through the hallway as Mrs. Crain’s palm struck my father squarely across his face.

The force knocked his frail body sideways. He hit the corner of the shoe cabinet and slid down to the floor.

“Dad!” I screamed, breaking free from Julian’s grip with raw, frantic strength.

I rushed to my father’s side. His cheek was bright red and swollen, and a thin trail of blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. Yet, despite the pain, his first instinct was to reach out with his trembling hands to cover my eyes.

“Maya… don’t look… Dad is fine… I’m fine…” he stammered, his voice cracking with humiliation.

Something inside me snapped completely.

The years of quiet endurance, the sacrifices my father made, the greasy money from his diner, the cold stares from Julian—it all condensed into an icy, blinding rage.

I slowly stood up and turned around.

Julian was hovering over Mrs. Crain, checking her hand with deep concern. “Godmother, are you alright? Did you hurt your wrist?”

Phoebe was pouting beside them. “Mom, you shouldn’t have hit him directly, his dirty face might have infected your skin!”

Not a single one of them cared about the elderly man bleeding on the floor.

“Julian Vance,” I spoke, my voice deathly quiet.

Julian turned around, frowning with irritation. “Maya, look at what your father caused! He scared my godmother! Tell him to apologize right now, and then both of you get out!”

I walked over to the dining table, picked up the glass pitcher full of iced water, turned around, and slammed it directly over Julian’s head.

*CRASH!*

Ice and cold water drenched him from head to toe. The pitcher shattered on the hardwood floor.

“AHHH!” Phoebe screamed in horror.

“Are you insane?!” Julian roared, wiping water from his eyes, his face twisting in shock and fury. “Tang Maya! Have you lost your mind?!”

“I was insane,” I said, looking at him with absolute indifference. “I was insane to let a leech like you feed off my father’s sweat and blood for six years.”

I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and played a recorded audio file at maximum volume.

Julian’s clear voice echoed through the room:

*”Of course. I barely know those two outside—they’re just distant acquaintances. It’s no big deal.”*

Then, I opened my banking app, pulled up the transaction history spanning the last six years, and held the screen inches from his face.

“Total tuition fees paid: $84,000. Total living stipends transferred: $42,000. Every single cent came from my father’s diner. Every cent was earned by a man standing over a hot stove for fourteen hours a day.”

I looked into his trembling eyes.

“You called him a ‘distant acquaintance’ to impress your godmother. You let her slap him in his own daughter’s home. You told him to sleep in a motel because he wasn’t worthy of your guest room.”

“Julian Vance, you are lower than dirt.”

—

## CHAPTER 4: THE RECKONING

Mrs. Crain tried to jump back in, her face red with embarrassment. “So what if he paid for tuition?! That was a gift! You can’t hold that over his head!”

“A gift?” I turned my cold glare onto her. “Every transaction transfer note explicitly states ‘Personal Educational Loan.’ I have every single receipt signed by Julian Vance himself.”

I looked back at Julian, whose face had drained of all color.

“Tomorrow morning, my lawyer will file two lawsuits,” I said, my voice razor-sharp.

“First, a civil lawsuit for the full repayment of $126,000 in educational loans, plus accrued interest.”

“Second, a criminal complaint against your godmother for physical assault and battery resulting in injury to a senior citizen. The security camera in this hallway recorded everything.”

Phoebe gasped, grabbing her mother’s arm. “Mom… there’s a camera?”

Indeed, right above the foyer door, a small security camera blinked with a steady red light.

Julian’s confidence collapsed instantly. He knew what a criminal scandal and a public lawsuit would do to his career. As a Chief Resident up for a major promotion, a charge of financial fraud and enabling assault would destroy his medical license.

“Maya… wait,” Julian stammered, stepping forward, his voice suddenly desperate. “Let’s talk about this calmly. Godmother didn’t know… I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t touch me,” I spat.

I walked over to the master bedroom, pulled out my suitcases, and packed my father’s and my belongings in less than ten minutes.

As I rolled the suitcases toward the door, Julian grabbed my wrist, his hands shaking. “Maya, please! We’re getting married in five days! Everything is booked! What will people say if you call it off?!”

“I already sent the cancellation text to everyone nine hours ago,” I said, ripping my wrist out of his grip. “The wedding is dead. And so are we.”

I helped my father stand up. He looked at me, tears welling in his tired eyes, but this time, he didn’t ask me to endure it. He held my arm firmly, his posture straighter than it had been all day.

“Let’s go home, Maya,” my father whispered softly.

“Yes, Dad. Let’s go home.”

—

## EPILOGUE

Three days later, I took my father to a top-tier private medical center in the neighboring city.

Thanks to an earlier appointment with a renowned specialist, his gastroscopy was completed smoothly. The results showed a severe case of chronic ulceration, but thankfully, no cellular malignancy. With proper medication and rest, he would make a full recovery.

While sitting by his hospital bed, my phone buzzed with dozens of frantic messages from Julian.

His department head had caught wind of the upcoming lawsuit. The hospital board had suspended Julian from his Chief Resident position pending an internal ethics investigation. Mrs. Crain and Phoebe had fled back to their hometown after receiving a formal police summons for the assault charge.

Julian begged to see me, offering to pay back the money, offering to apologize on his knees to my father.

I didn’t reply. I simply forwarded his messages directly to my attorney.

Looking out the window at the bright morning sun, I watched my father sleep peacefully on the clean white sheets. His face looked rested, the deep tension finally gone from his brow.

He would never have to wake up at four in the morning to fry pastries for a man who didn’t respect him. He would never have to bow his head to appease people who viewed him as dirt.

I leaned over, pulled the warm blanket up over his shoulders, and smiled softly.

The diner was going to be sold. We were going to buy a small house near the coast, where he could plant vegetables, breathe the fresh ocean air, and finally enjoy the retirement he had earned a thousand times over.