They Replaced Me... Until the Government Wanted Me

Chapter 21

Twelve years had passed since I left the research institute.

The drug development project was a resounding success. The specific medication for heart failure had been approved and was now being launched at an affordable price.

On the day of the press conference, I stood alongside my colleagues and mentors.

Many heart failure patients and their families had gathered spontaneously, their voices trembling with emotion as they thanked us through tears.

That day also happened to be the first day of the twelfth lunar month—the anniversary of my parents' death in the line of duty.

Time had rewritten their ending.

Suddenly, I remembered that night many years ago when my mother held me close and whispered softly:

"If we can speed up the progress, those patients might afford the medicine before New Year's Eve and have a better holiday."

Back then, I didn’t fully understand many things—nor could I decipher the fire and mist in her eyes.

She had said gently, "Too many patients in this world give up on life because of poverty and expensive medications."

"Every dollar we reduce from the price might give one more patient the hope to keep living."

"Paige, this is your father’s and my greatest wish."

They had left abruptly, their dreams unfinished.

But now, I had finally written the last ###Chapter for them.

Would they finally rest in peace beneath the earth?

I accepted the flowers from grateful patients and answered the reporters’ relentless questions.

Amid the bustling crowd, my gaze suddenly locked onto a familiar pair of eyes.

Through the sea of people, I caught sight of Ethan Parker in the distance—and beside him, Lucas.

Twelve years had aged them, just as it had aged me.

By now, they were both past forty.

Fine lines framed Lucas’s eyes, his face weathered and weary.

And Ethan, though only forty-two, already had streaks of silver at his temples.

Our eyes met, and for a moment, it felt like lifetimes had passed.

The older brother who once skipped work to attend my parent-teacher meetings.

The second brother who stood on stools to cook meals for me.

The mischievous little girl, Paige Anderson.

Now, we were all growing old.

Their lips twitched, as if they wanted to smile—but it looked more like they might cry.

Twelve years apart, and they still watched me intently from afar.

Yet in the end, they didn’t take a single step closer.

I smiled back, my heart finally at peace.

Twelve years hadn’t erased the resentment or the pain.

But in the end, it had taught me to let go.

As the press conference ended, I turned to leave with my colleagues.

Then, from behind me, came a hoarse, urgent voice—

"Paige... Paige."