Five Years Wasted Now They Beg Her Back novel Chapter 242

She pushed open the door, and a wave of fresh air greeted her. It was cold, but invigorating.

Her grandmother was sitting on a small stool in the courtyard, a sickle in her hand, clearing the overgrown weeds.

The old woman moved with a briskness that belied her recent illness.

“Grace, you’re awake?”

Her grandmother saw her and smiled, pointing toward the stove.

“There’s some oatmeal in the pot. It’s still warm.”

Grace walked over and lifted the lid.

A sweet, warm scent wafted out.

It had been a long time since she had smelled such a simple, wholesome meal.

At the Clarke estate, the food was all gourmet delicacies, as exquisite as works of art.

But it lacked this warmth, this homey feeling.

“Where’s Grandpa?”

Grace ladled a bowl of oatmeal and squatted beside her grandmother, eating.

“He went to the village committee office,” her grandmother said as she pulled weeds.

“Said he wanted to thank Mr. Fenwick and ask about getting the electricity fixed.”

Grace nodded.

“Grandma, let me help you.”

She finished her oatmeal in a few bites, rolled up her sleeves, and started pulling weeds too.

Her hands were made for laboratory work.

Fair, slender, with well-defined knuckles.

But now, they were digging in the muddy soil, pulling up thorny weeds.

Soon, her hands were covered in small scratches.

Dirt was wedged under her fingernails.

But she didn’t feel dirty, nor did she feel the pain.

Instead, it felt as though the empty space in her heart was being filled by this simple labor.

Sometimes, hard work is the best medicine for pain.

“Grace,” her grandmother suddenly stopped and looked at her.

“You’re thinking about that Clarke boy, aren’t you?”

Grace’s hand trembled, nearly snapping a weed in half.

“No… I’m not.”

She lowered her head, hiding the panic in her eyes.

“I hate his guts. Why would I think about him?”

“If you could control your feelings, they wouldn’t be called feelings.”

Her grandmother’s cloudy eyes gazed at the distant mountains, her voice soft and far away.

“Actually… I don’t blame the Clarkes.”

Grace looked up, her face a mask of shock.

“Grandma, what are you saying?”

“That was my uncle, your son!”

“I know,” her grandmother said with a bitter smile, tears welling in her eyes.

“Bastian was the light of my life. When he died, I wanted to die with him.”

“But Grace, have you ever thought about it?”

“Your uncle was too aggressive back then. He moved too fast and made a lot of enemies.”

“Even if it wasn't the Clarkes, it would have been the Greymarks or some other company.”

“It was just business competition. It’s brutal, but those are the rules.”

Her grandmother wiped away a tear and continued.

“Your grandfather blames Damien because he needs an outlet.”

“He needs someone to hate to keep himself going, to feel like your uncle’s death wasn’t in vain.”

“But… is it really fair to put all that blame on a young man who had just taken over the company and was only executing a business strategy?”