Blurb：
Fiona Lincoln’s life revolves around caring for her paralyzed father, David Lincoln. Trapped in a cycle of preparing mugwort baths, administering medication, and sleepless nights, she endures the accusations of being cold-hearted. Her brother, Eric Lincoln, runs a social media account titled “a filial family’s daily,” twisting surveillance footage to portray Fiona as neglectful. As comments vilify her, Fiona battles isolation and exhaustion, questioning the truth behind family duty. Will she uncover the real story behind Eric Lincoln’s edits, or will David Lincoln’s deteriorating condition push her to the brink? A gripping tale of betrayal, sacrifice, and the search for redemption.Content：
The early autumn wind has already grown a little chilly.But the steam in the kitchen, filled with the scent of mugwort, still makes my back sticky with heat.
I fix my eyes on the mobile phone screen, my fingers scrolling through one comment after another.
Every single word felt like shards of ice, pricking my fingertips until they went numb.
The clay pot on the stove was still simmering.
Inside was the mugwort bath tonic brewed for Father David Lincoln—he has been paralyzed for three years, and every day after meals he must soak in it for an hour.
After the bath, he needs a massage.
From his shoulders down to his ankles, if I press too lightly, he complains of pain; if I press too hard, he accuses me of deliberately tormenting him.
At night, it is even more restless.
Even if I help him to the bathroom before sleep, later in the night I can still hear him cry out, "I'm wet," loud enough to wake the neighbors upstairs.
Not long ago, Madam Clark even came knocking at the door.
"Fiona, your father shouldn't keep calling out at night. My grandson is about to take his college entrance exam."
I could only bow my head and apologize, promising to be more careful next time.
Later, I simply started sleeping on the floor in his room.
My bedding was right next to the wheelchair, so whenever he made a sound, I could wake up immediately.
It has been three years.
I haven't watched a complete movie, haven't gone shopping with friends even once, and even taking a hot shower has to be carefully timed.
The mobile phone screen was still on.
I opened that account called "a filial family's daily," and my heart sank as if it were weighed down with lead.
The account description says: "The three siblings are striving out in the world. The youngest sister, Fiona Lincoln, uses the living expenses to care for our paralyzed father. The surveillance footage captures our real daily life."
The account is run by my brother, Eric Lincoln.
Scrolling down, there are more than 1,200 videos.
The first video was posted on the exact day I quit my job and came home.
I clicked on one at random.
In the footage, I had just laid down beside the bed to rest when my father's cries woke me up.
He held his waist, saying, "The pain is unbearable." Half asleep, I reached out to rub it, my eyes not fully open.
The video caption read: "An elderly father cries out in pain late at night, yet his daughter wears a face full of impatience. Where is the filial duty?"
The comment section exploded instantly.
"This woman looks so cold-hearted, takes money but doesn't do her part!"
"When my grandmother was paralyzed, my mother stayed up all night by her side. She's nothing like this half-hearted approach."
I opened another post.
It showed me feeding my father his blood pressure medication.
He kept calling the pills 'poison' and insisted on breaking them apart, staring at them for a long time. When the medicine dissolved in his mouth, he complained of the bitterness and spat so much that my hand was covered.
I could only quickly get the medicine into him and help him swallow it with warm water.
But in the video, my actions were edited to appear fast and rough.
The caption read: "Forcing medicine! The paralyzed father is angry but cannot speak out; the daughter's attitude is cold and heartless."
The comments were even harsher.
"This is outright abuse!"
"Mr. Lincoln used to be a primary school teacher, such a gentle man—how could he raise someone like this?"
My fingers trembled as I scrolled down through the comments one by one.
Not a single clip showed me combing his hair, changing the clean sheets, or crouching on the floor to wipe the porridge he spilled on his wheelchair.
Only the edited 'evidence' is used to brand me as an unfilial girl.
The clay pot suddenly boiled over.
The smell of mugwort mixed with a burnt scent drifted over, jolting me back to reality.
"Fiona! The water's cold!"
Father's voice came from the bedroom, carrying a trace of impatience.
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The End