Author: Momo Chan

On the night of my twenty-third birthday, I was ready to confess my feelings to Caleb Thorne. But he beat me to it, falling in love at first sight with my roommate, Lydia. I watched them for years—breaking up, making up, and caught in an endless, toxic cycle. Finally, I gave up. I found someone else. The day I went Instagram official with my new boyfriend, everyone showered us with sincere congratulations. Caleb was the only one who didn’t show up. Until the next day, when someone brought it up right in front of him. “Did you see the post? What do you think of Nina’s new guy?” Caleb leaned back on the sofa, his eyes flicking toward me for a split second. After a long silence, he spoke with a slow, indifferent drawl. “Eh. He’s average.” 1 The moment Caleb’s words hit the floor, the room went dead silent. Every eye in the place turned toward me. Some were looking for drama; others were genuinely worried. In this day and age, everyone loves a good “soft launch” on social media. When two people stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling and clearly in love, who doesn’t want to hear that they’re a perfect match? But Caleb? He just sat there and threw out a casual, “Eh, he’s average.” Caleb Thorne was many things—moody and arrogant, mostly—but he was usually a man of impeccable social standing. To say this now felt like a deliberate attempt to humiliate me. I swallowed the fire rising in my chest and looked him in the eye. “And what exactly is wrong with him?” The truth was, Grant was handsome. Even my mother, who is notoriously impossible to please, couldn’t help but praise him when they met. “He’s definitely on par with that Thorne boy you know,” she’d said. I glared at Caleb, my expression tight with displeasure. But he just let out a weary, jaded laugh. He flicked a glance at me. “Just a passing comment. Don’t take it to heart.” “Bring him around sometime. Let’s see what he’s really about.” With that, he stood up and walked away without looking back. He didn’t spare me a single glance. Someone tried to comfort me, whispering, “Tsk, ignore him, Nina. He just broke up with Lydia again. He’s probably just in a foul mood.” “You know how they are. They’ll be back together in a week.” The person looked at me for confirmation. “Right, Nina?” I drifted for a second. “Yeah. That’s usually how it goes.” They had been entangled for so long. People like that don’t just part ways easily. Over the past few years, I had hoped and been disappointed more times than I could count. I should have known better by now, right? 2 After leaving the lounge, I spotted Caleb smoking a cigarette not far off. He rarely did that. Lydia hated the smell. Tonight, he was acting completely out of character. I was still fuming over his comment, so I didn’t say a word as I tried to walk past him. I hadn’t taken two steps before a hand clamped firmly around my wrist. I turned around to meet a pair of cool, indifferent eyes. Ever since I first met him, I’d heard the stories. Caleb Thorne, the legendary heir to the Thorne empire, groomed for the throne since he was in diapers. People threw themselves at him in droves, but he never looked at anyone. When I became close with him, everyone told me I was the luckiest girl alive. For years, I was the only girl in his inner circle. People used to whisper behind my back. “Who knows? Maybe one day the ‘best friend’ will become the ‘Mrs. Thorne.’” It’s not that I never had that dream. But then Lydia appeared, and I realized she was his “soulmate.” He had stayed single for twenty years just to wait for her. As for me? I was just lucky enough to be an acquaintance. Under the dim lights, he stared at me, his expression lazy. He said, “How did you meet him?” I didn’t process the question at first. I froze. He repeated it, his patience wearing thin. “I asked… how did you meet that guy?” 3 The winter wind was biting. Caleb instinctively shifted his body to block the cold draft for me. I looked at his face and remained silent for a moment. “We met while traveling. I liked his vibe, so we started dating.” There’s a phrase for it: right place, right time. That was me and Grant. Caleb’s eyelids fluttered. “Traveling? When did you go on a trip? I didn’t know about this.” I gave a small, bitter smile. “Last month.” He probably didn’t remember. One night last month, he called me in the middle of the night, panicking because Lydia had picked a fight and hopped on a flight to London in a rage. He said, “You’re her closest friend, you have to help me talk to her. She’s alone in a foreign city, she’s going to get hurt.” I packed my bags overnight and flew across the ocean with him. But shortly after we landed, he got a tip that she had already left for Paris. A round trip, sixteen hours of travel. I came down with a high fever and couldn’t keep going. He left me in the hotel and went to find Lydia. After he left, I stood by the window overlooking the Thames, watching the cold moon, and suddenly felt a profound exhaustion. For the sake of staying by his side, I had turned down stable jobs in my hometown. Even last year, when my father was hospitalized, I couldn’t be there. Time is heartless. No one knows what I gained or what I lost. Snapping back to the present, I looked at Caleb and spoke calmly. “Are you done? I have to go.” He was stunned. After a long silence, he spoke again. “Let me borrow your phone. Lydia blocked me.” I really wanted to ask—there were a dozen people in that room, did it have to be my phone? But the words stayed in my throat. After all, the joy, the pain, the despair… from start to finish, I was the only one who knew. In his eyes, I was the perfect friend. Nothing more. I pulled out my phone and handed it to him. He took it and walked off to make the call. They talked for a long while. When Caleb came back, the tension had left his face. He smiled and handed the phone back to me. Just as I took it, a message popped up on the screen. Grant: [I’ll be back next month, babe.] In an instant, the smile on Caleb’s face vanished. He narrowed his eyes, his voice turning cold. “You two seem pretty serious.” 4 Since I had decided to let go, I began to intentionally distance myself from Caleb’s circle. I stopped initiating contact and avoided the places where they hung out. One day, Caleb messaged me. [Your birthday is in two days. Want to come check out the venue I booked?] He was always generous like that. Whenever a friend had a birthday, he’d go all out to organize it. I wasn’t the first, and I wouldn’t be the last. But I still remember my twenty-third birthday. Caleb had pointed at Lydia, who was standing across the room, and asked me, “Is that your friend? Send me her contact info.” A perfect match. I suppose they should thank me for being the matchmaker. Later, Caleb went through hell to win Lydia over. I heard someone ask him, Why her? At the time, he was texting her. He looked up, smirked, and said, “She wore a red dress that night. I’ve never seen anyone look that good in red.” But who remembers that I was wearing red that night, too? In the years following, I never touched that color again. I typed back: [I’m busy. Don’t worry about it.] It took a long time for a reply to come. [Busy dating?] I replied: [Yes.] He didn’t respond after that. Instead, his best friend, Leo, sent me a voice note, sounding amused. “Impressive, Nina. Caleb spent so much time planning this party. We were up half the night for days, and you just blow it off? You really pissed him off, haha.” I sent a casual reply. Just then, a red dot appeared on my email icon. It was a job offer. I smiled, feeling a genuine spark of joy, and messaged Grant. [Once I finish the handover here, I can resign. When you get back, we’re moving back to Portland together.] It was a coincidence that we were both from the same city. He replied: [Good.] Grant was a serious man, a man of few words. But looking at that one word, I couldn’t help but smile.

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I happened to swipe across a street interview video from a popular influencer. “What would you say to yourself five years ago?” In the video, Caleb Sterling was holding his young girlfriend. His voice was steady, his tone doting. “I’d hope the Caleb Sterling of five years ago could have met Lydia sooner.” The girl in his arms blushed, covering her mouth as she chimed in. “Me too.” Netizens gushed over how sweet they were, flooding the comments with blessings. No one knew that five years ago was the day Caleb and I got married. Even he seemed to have forgotten. Until a week later. The same influencer posted another street interview. In the frame, I looked directly into the lens and spoke earnestly: “If possible, Winnie, don’t marry Caleb Sterling. You’ll regret it.” This time, Caleb swiped across it. 01 The day I agreed to the divorce was just another ordinary afternoon. I called Caleb, but Lydia answered. “Hello?” “I’m looking for Caleb.” “He’s in the shower. If it’s anything important, you can just tell me.” Her voice was as chirpy and fearless as ever. There was a faint scent of territorial triumph in her tone. In the past, I would have screamed, hysterically demanding Lydia to get lost, demanding to see Caleb. But now, I understood clearly that Lydia was the only way to reach him. I couldn’t let her hang up like before, leaving me alone like a madwoman. “He mentioned a divorce earlier. I’m agreeing to it.” I conveyed my message calmly. There was a second of silence on the other end before Lydia repeated, disbelief in her voice. “You’re agreeing to the divorce?” “Yes.” The moment the word left my mouth, I heard a rustling sound. Caleb must have taken the phone. His deep, indifferent voice soon rang in my ear. “It’s me.” I knew. Hearing his voice made me feel a bit dazed. After all, since he moved out of our villa six months ago to live with Lydia, we hadn’t been in contact. The last thing he said to me was: “Winnie, let’s divorce. If you don’t agree, I’ll file for separation and then take it to court.” Six months later, I was giving in. “Lydia says you want to divorce me?” Seeing that I was silent, Caleb asked first. I could imagine him frowning as he spoke, his tone laced with a hint of confusion. I didn’t even understand where his confusion came from. Wasn’t the divorce his idea? But I didn’t want to argue with Caleb over “who initiated it” anymore. “Yeah,” I replied. “When you have time, let’s meet and sign the settlement.” With that, I hung up. 02 That was the first time I had hung up first since I discovered Caleb’s affair. Before, I was the one bombarding him with calls and texts. I had used the most vicious words to curse him and the most heartbroken voice to beg him. But every time, Caleb would say impatiently: “Can you stop acting like a lunatic? Talk to me when you’re emotionally stable.” Then he would end the call without mercy. No matter how many times I called or messaged after that, he ignored me. I wanted to stop, but whenever I thought about how our years of history were ending like this, I couldn’t control myself. I wanted to demand why he betrayed me. I wanted to beg him to come back, promising I’d forgive him. But the more I waited, the more I resented. Caleb remained the same. And I gradually became insecure and fragile, exactly as he said. Like a lunatic. I lived in that haze for a long time, drowning in a relationship that only brought me torment. Until three days ago. I came across a street interview video from an influencer called “Time Capsule.” The question was: “What would you say to yourself five years ago?” Some said study harder. Some said spend more time with family. Some said the version of themselves seven years later is great and hasn’t failed their expectations. … In that series of answers, I saw Caleb and his young girlfriend, Lydia. It made me believe this wasn’t scripted. Given Caleb’s status now, even top-tier journalists need an appointment to see him. But this influencer truly seemed to have caught him randomly as a passerby. At the start of the clip, Caleb looked slightly annoyed by the interview. It was Lydia, standing beside him, who looked surprised and full of interest. “This looks fun, Caleb. Let’s do it.” She tugged on Caleb’s arm, acting cute. Caleb looked helpless but gave in with indulgence. The influencer briefly introduced himself and then asked the universal question. Lydia fell into thought. Seeing her struggle, Caleb answered for her. “If possible, I’d hope the Caleb Sterling of five years ago could have met Lydia sooner.” As he said it, he pulled her closer. His voice was cool, but the protective intent for the girl was unmistakable. Lydia looked at him in surprise, then blushed and covered her mouth as she agreed. “Me too.” 03 By the time I saw the video, it already had tens of thousands of likes. The comments were flooded with people gushing over them. [Damn! This couple is so attractive! I ship them!] [Oh my god, a pure love trope! Finally, my faith in humanity is restored!] [So sweet! You two will definitely be happy! 99!] I stared at the video, dazed. Did Caleb really love Lydia that much? Did he forget? Five years ago, we had just gotten married. That was when our relationship was at its peak. Even though we were struggling financially, we felt incredibly happy. And now, in the video, he said he wished he had met Lydia five years ago. I thought I would be as furious as usual, filled with uncontrollable rage. I thought I’d rush to my phone to bomb Caleb with questions. And if he didn’t pick up, I’d smash everything in the villa and scream to vent. But strangely, this time, I just sat there, motionless. The comments that should have stung me and triggered my emotions just scrolled past like lines of code. Suddenly, it felt as if something had been pulled out of my mind and dissipated. I was surprised to find that I no longer felt anything toward Caleb’s behavior. Persistence happens in an instant; moving on happens in an instant, too. That was why I made that phone call. 04 Caleb sent me a message. Against a backdrop of red exclamation marks in our chat history, that white bubble with black text was glaringly obvious. I guess Caleb had unblocked me. I thought to myself with self-mockery. Caleb told me to come to his office on Monday morning. He’d have his lawyer draft the terms. Once we agreed on the terms, we could sign and wait for the mandatory cooling-off period to end. [Okay.] On Monday, I arrived at Caleb’s company as scheduled. Since I didn’t have an appointment, the front desk called up to ask. “Yes, a Ms. Winnie Lane.” After hanging up, the receptionist told me to go to the executive floor; a secretary would receive me. I said thank you and headed straight for Caleb’s floor. The person who received me was a young girl I didn’t recognize. I suppose she was a new hire. After all, I hadn’t been here for six months since Caleb and I separated. “Ms. Lane, please wait here. Mr. Sterling is in a meeting.” The girl didn’t recognize me either. She called me Ms. Lane and led me to a standard waiting room. In the past, I used to go directly to Caleb’s office to wait. His meetings usually lasted at least an hour. I hated waiting. Caleb knew this. Afraid I’d be bored, he kept a lot of books and movies in his office. “You can read or watch a movie. If you’re tired, go wait in the lounge.” That’s what he used to tell me. Until the last time I came. The things in Caleb’s office that belonged to me had all been replaced. The person who could freely enter his private lounge had become someone else. Now, if I wanted to see him, I could only stay in a generic waiting room. But I truly had no heart or energy left to argue over such trifles. So I waited quietly. I had enough time. But what I didn’t expect was that I would wait for two hours. Still, no one came to tell me Caleb was available. “Excuse me, is Mr. Sterling’s meeting over yet?” I couldn’t help but ask the girl who had brought me in. She was evasive. “Mr. Sterling is still in a meeting…” I frowned, about to speak. Suddenly, the sound of laughter and chatting drifted over. “Then let’s go to that restaurant for lunch together.” “Sure.”

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They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but for me, it was worth a broken marriage. On my daughter’s fifth birthday, a post popped up on my feed. It was a photo of a cozy bedroom, captioned: “The little guy was crying for Daddy, so Super Dad dropped everything to tuck him in.” In the photo, the man lying on the bed wasn’t just any “Super Dad.” He was my husband, Harrison Reed. Ten minutes prior, I had received a text from him: “Stuck at the office tonight, honey. Give Mia a kiss for me.” I liked the post, then called my divorce lawyer. 01 Harrison didn’t stumble through the front door until 2:00 AM. The harsh hallway light cut through the dark of the bedroom. I immediately shielded my daughter’s eyes with my hand. Harrison leaned against the doorframe, smelling of cold air and guilt. “Hey, I’m home. Wake Mia up. I want to celebrate with her before the day is totally over.” In the past, I lived for these family traditions. Birthdays, Thanksgiving, anniversaries—I insisted Harrison be there. I didn’t want Mia growing up like I did, only seeing her father through a FaceTime screen. But now? I pulled the duvet tighter around us. My voice was flat. “Don’t bother.” An flash of impatience crossed Harrison’s face. “Sarah, look. I only went over there because Toby was having a meltdown. It’s not what you think. Don’t make this a thing.” “It’s because you’re always so paranoid that I can’t even tell you the truth anymore.” I wasn’t paranoid. Not anymore. I just didn’t care. “If you’re done, go to the guest room. Mia has preschool in the morning. Don’t wake her.” Harrison let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Fine. Suit yourself. Just don’t come crying to me later saying I’m missing out on her childhood.” I turned my back to him and switched off the lamp, gently patting Mia as she stirred. Missing out? It didn’t matter. Because Mia’s birthday wish this year had been: “I wish I didn’t have to see Daddy anymore.” The next morning, Harrison didn’t rush out after breakfast like usual. He sat at the island, scrolling through the news. As we headed for the door, he grabbed his keys. “I’ll drive her to school today.” He was looking at me, but speaking to Mia. Two years ago, when Mia started preschool, Harrison drove her every day. But after Vanessa moved back to town, his “morning meetings” started earlier and earlier. He was always too busy. Until three months ago. I was dropping off a forgotten lunchbox when I saw him. The man who was supposed to be in a boardroom was at the school across the street, lifting a little boy out of the backseat of his SUV. He wasn’t busy. He just had a “priority” family. We had fought like hell that night. Since then, Mia stopped asking for him. I hesitated, then stepped aside. He was still her father, legally. Harrison smirked, thinking he’d won, and lifted Mia into his arms. But when he opened the car door, I froze. The back seat was cluttered. An Avengers water bottle. A wooden toy bow. A silk scarf draped over the headrest. And hanging from the rearview mirror was a “Family Portrait” charm. It featured Harrison, Vanessa, and Toby. Harrison saw my gaze. His expression tightened. “Vanessa put that there. She said it makes Toby feel safe when they borrow the car.” “Don’t start a fight over a piece of plastic.” Old Sarah would have ripped it down. I would have screamed, asking what Mia and I were to him. New Sarah just nodded. “It’s a nice photo.” Harrison stared at me, confused. “You’re not… mad?” Mad? Maybe I should have been. But looking at his pathetic attempts to play both sides, I felt nothing but a dull urge to laugh. “We’re going to be late, Harrison. Drive.” He gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set. Just as I was about to buckle Mia in, his phone blared through the car’s Bluetooth. A child’s voice wailed through the speakers, heart-wrenching and loud. “Daddy! Daddy, where are you?” “Are you leaving me and Mommy again?” Harrison didn’t even look at us. He shifted into gear immediately. “Toby’s having an anxiety attack. I have to go. Take the Uber, okay?” The black Mercedes sped away, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust. I knelt down to comfort Mia. “Daddy has an emergency, baby. Next time—” Mia looked at me with eyes far too old for a five-year-old. “There won’t be a next time, Mommy. He belongs to Toby now.” 02 That evening, Harrison called. “Sarah, I’ll be late. Toby’s got a fever…” “Okay.” I cut him off so fast he choked on his next excuse. He took my indifference for an attitude. “Sarah, stop being a brat.” He hung up. Ten minutes later, the “apology” texts from Vanessa started rolling in. [So sorry, Sarah! Toby is just so attached to his ‘Dad’ lately.] [I told him he shouldn’t have ditched you and Mia, but he just couldn’t stand to see Toby cry.] [I’ll scold him for you! Don’t be mad! 😉] It wasn’t an apology. It was a declaration of war. I didn’t have the energy to fight over a man I no longer wanted. I blocked her. Harrison called back instantly. “What the hell is wrong with you? Vanessa tries to apologize and you block her?” I could hear the faint sound of a woman sobbing in the background. “Sarah, I’m so disappointed in you,” he hissed. “When did you become so bitter?” It was always like this. Vanessa would poke the bear, and the moment I reacted, Harrison would label me the villain. I went home and started packing. While I packed, I talked to my lawyer. Since Harrison had built his firm during our marriage, I was entitled to at least 30% of the equity. And with his documented neglect, custody was a shoe-in. I packed the clothes, the jewelry, and Mia’s toys. In the back of the closet, I found a dust-covered cedar box. Letters. Hundreds of them. From the Harrison who was 17, to the Harrison who was 22. I opened the one on top. “To the Sarah of the future: This is Harrison at 17. By the time we open this, we’ll be married. We’ll probably have a beautiful kid. I promise to love you forever.” My phone buzzed. It was the Harrison of the present—the 27-year-old version. “Sarah! Vanessa took Toby and left because of your attitude! If anything happens to them, I’ll never forgive you!” I looked down at the letter. “Signed: Your Harrison, forever.” Something inside me finally snapped. Not with a bang, but with a quiet, hollow crack. I hung up and tossed the box into the fireplace. 03 Harrison didn’t come home that night. I didn’t call him. I didn’t beg. A week later, I needed a parental signature for Mia’s school field trip—an electronic ID verification. I called Harrison. He had blocked me. I had no choice but to go to his office. I hadn’t been there in a year. As I waited in the lobby, I saw a familiar silhouette walk straight into Harrison’s private suite without knocking. The receptionist looked at me guiltily. “Mrs. Reed… Mr. Reed gave Vanessa ‘all-access’ privileges.” I had been the one to start that tradition. I used to bring him lunch every day. We’d sit and talk for an hour. One day, Vanessa showed up to “talk business” and was made to wait in the hall. Harrison had been furious—at me. He said my lunches were a distraction. He fired the assistant who made Vanessa wait. Everyone in the building knew who the real “Mrs. Reed” was now. I walked into the office. Harrison was in a meeting with several executives. He looked up, startled. “What are you doing here?” Vanessa was perched on the edge of his desk, her hand dangerously close to his. “Sarah, don’t get the wrong idea,” Harrison sighed. “Vanessa is consulting on the new acquisition.” I didn’t blink. I handed him the tablet. “Mia needs a signature for her trip.” “You came all this way for a signature?” “What else would I come for?” The air in the room turned cold. Harrison looked annoyed—likely because I wasn’t making a scene. Vanessa chimed in with a smirk. “Oh, Harrison, she’s just using the kid as an excuse to see you. You’ve been staying at my place for days; she’s lonely.” Harrison leaned back, a mocking glint in his eyes. “Apologize to Vanessa for blocking her, Sarah. Do that, and I’ll sign.” The old me would have been heartbroken. The new me just looked at the clock. Mia would be disappointed if she couldn’t go. I looked at Harrison, then at Vanessa. Without a word, I turned to leave. I’d tell the teacher Mia didn’t have a father. “If you need a signature, I’d be happy to help,” a deep, cool voice said. A man who had been sitting in the corner of the office stood up. Everett Vance. One of the city’s most powerful venture capitalists. “I’ve seen enough of this ‘family drama’ to know who the adult in the room is,” Everett said, taking the tablet from me. The verification cleared instantly. He was listed as an emergency contact—my mother must have added him. He was an old family friend I hadn’t seen in years. He signed his name in a bold, elegant script. 04 The divorce papers were ready. I invited Harrison home one last time to end the cold war. When I went to pick up Mia from school, his Mercedes was already in the loading zone. Vanessa was in the passenger seat, wearing a designer coat I recognized from our joint credit card statement. “Still wearing last year’s North Face, Sarah?” she chirped. “Don’t want the other moms to think you’re struggling.” I ignored her. Harrison stared at me from the driver’s seat. “It’s freezing, Sarah. Get in the car.” “I’ll walk.” Near the school gate, a scuffle broke out. Two kids were fighting. One of them was Mia. The other was Toby. I rushed over to pull them apart. Toby immediately fell to the ground, wailing. “She hit me! It hurts!” Harrison and Vanessa came running. Vanessa scooped Toby up. “Sarah! If you hate me, take it out on me! Don’t touch my son!” Harrison looked at me with pure disgust, completely forgetting that Mia was his own blood. The teacher looked flustered. “Mrs. Reed, the kids… they both claimed Mr. Reed was their dad. They started arguing about who was lying, and it turned physical.” The surrounding parents began to whisper. “Is that the mistress?” “The little girl is delusional, claiming that rich guy is her dad.” “So young and already a gold-digger. Terrible parenting.” Toby was clinging to Harrison’s neck, screaming “Daddy!” Mia stood frozen, her eyes locked on Harrison, waiting. A boy from her class asked, “Mister, whose dad are you? You have to tell the truth.” Harrison opened his mouth. “I’m Mia—” Vanessa grabbed his sleeve, her eyes filling with tears. In that second, I knew. I was the second choice. Again. “Think very carefully, Harrison,” I said, my voice like ice. “Your answer will change Mia’s life forever.” Harrison’s face went numb. He looked down at Toby, then out at the crowd of influential parents. “I’m Toby’s father,” he said clearly. Then he looked at Mia. “Kid, you must have me confused with someone else.” The world tilted. My heart felt like it had been hit by a sledgehammer. The parents began to jeer. “Poor kid, lying about her dad. No shame.” “Look at the mother. Probably taught her to do it to get child support.” I moved to scream at him, but a small, cold hand squeezed mine. Mia’s eyes were dead. “It’s okay, Mommy,” she whispered. She turned to Harrison and gave a polite, shallow bow. “I’m sorry, sir. I made a mistake.” 05 In the ice cream shop later, I held Mia close. “Mia, he is your father. I won’t make you love him, but I don’t want you to grow up with hate.” “I don’t have a father, Mommy,” she said tonelessly. “He said so himself.” I booked two one-way tickets to the West Coast for that night. A text from Harrison arrived: [Sarah, I’m sorry. But Toby doesn’t have a dad. I had to lie in that moment. I’ll explain it to the teacher tomorrow. Don’t let Mia be upset.] Too little, too late. I went back to the house to grab our passports. I thought the house would be empty. It wasn’t. Toby was jumping on Mia’s favorite chair. Vanessa and Harrison were in the kitchen, cooking dinner together. “What are you doing here?” I asked. Harrison looked up. “Vanessa wanted to apologize. She’s making your favorite pasta.” “I wouldn’t eat anything she touched.” Harrison sighed. “Kids, go to the playroom. Mommy and I need to talk.” The second the door closed, Vanessa started her act. “Sarah, it’s all my fault. If it makes you feel better, I’ll take Toby and leave town. I won’t ruin your marriage.” She started sobbing. I remembered when she first showed up. Her husband had passed away, and she was “struggling.” Harrison took her in as a “charity case.” I pulled out the divorce papers. “You don’t have to leave. I am.” “Harrison, sign. Then you can be the ‘Super Dad’ Toby deserves.” Harrison’s face turned purple. “You’re threatening me? Over a childhood friend? I told you, I promised Toby’s father I’d look after them!” “Then look after them. Just don’t look after us.” He grabbed the pen and scribbled his name, throwing the papers at my feet. “There! You happy? You think you can survive without me?” Before I could answer, Toby ran out of the room, crying. “Daddy! Mia hit me!” He had a tiny scratch on his face. Harrison lunged toward the playroom. “Sarah, look at what you’ve raised!” Mia stepped out, calm. “I didn’t touch him. He tripped.” “Stop lying, Mia! Apologize now!” Harrison roared. “Harrison,” I said. “We have cameras in the playroom. Want to check the cloud footage?” Vanessa’s face went pale. “It’s fine, really! Kids will be kids!” “No,” I insisted. “My daughter isn’t a liar.” We watched the footage. Toby had clearly scratched himself on a toy and then started screaming. Vanessa tried to backtrack. “He’s just a child… he was scared…” But Harrison wasn’t looking at Toby. He was staring at the top left corner of the screen. The footage from last night. He watched me throw the box of his old letters into the fireplace without a single tear.

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In this society, the Government’s Genetic Matching Program assigned me two Beast-kin brothers as life partners. Every night, I used to prepare two glasses of warm milk. Caleb, the older brother, was stoic and distant, but he would always accept the glass politely and offer a quiet thanks. Silas, the younger one, had a volatile temper. He would often smash the glass or lash out at me with biting words. I prided myself on being impartial. I balanced my attention between them perfectly, trying to be the perfect peacemaker. Until my best friend witnessed it one day. She looked at me with a pained expression and said: “Don’t you think that by being ‘fair’ to both, you’re actually being incredibly unfair to the one who actually treats you with respect?” I thought about her words all day. She was right. That night, I walked out of the kitchen with only one glass of milk in my hand. 1. Caleb was the first to notice the change. He didn’t say a word. He simply took the glass as usual and thanked me softly. Silas, sitting on the sofa nearby, was mindlessly playing a video game. It wasn’t until I stood up, said goodnight, and started walking toward the bedroom that he realized something was wrong. “Hey,” he barked, not looking up. “Did we run out of milk? Or are you too broke to afford two glasses now?” Unlike Caleb’s quiet reserve, Silas was like a prehistoric predator—loud, arrogant, and sharp. He tossed his controller aside, his eyes narrowing with a familiar cruelty. “If you’re going blind, just say so. Can’t you see I’m sitting right here?” He never spoke to me with an ounce of kindness. Any desire I had to explain myself evaporated. My smile faded, and I gave a curt reply. “We have milk.” “Then why the hell did you only bring out one glass? Who are you trying to spite?” Spite? I thought back to a few nights ago. Caleb and Silas had been called out on an emergency tactical mission for the Special Forces. They didn’t get home until 1:00 AM. I had waited up so long that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. When the door opened, I jumped up to reheat the dinner I’d kept warm for them. Like always, I prepared two glasses of milk. Silas looked exhausted. I noticed a gash on his shoulder and stepped forward, worried, reaching out to check on him. He shoved me away with an impatient snarl. Beast-kin strength is no joke; I was sent stumbling, and the glass of milk shattered across the hardwood floor. Silas froze for a split second, then his face contorted back into a scowl. “Damn it, are you blind? Can’t you see I’m checking my messages? Stop hovering over me. You’re pathetic.” He leaned back, his voice dripping with disgust. “The constant ‘doting wife’ act was annoying enough before. I’m exhausted, I just got home, and I have to deal with you acting like a desperate puppy. It’s draining.” In his eyes, my concern was nothing more than a desperate performance. I felt the sting of shame rise in my chest. My face burned. Without looking up, I stumbled back to my room. I heard a muffled grunt from the living room—Caleb had punched Silas. A moment later, Caleb came in with a first-aid kit and knelt before me. It was only then I realized a shard of glass had sliced my calf, and blood was trailing down to my ankle. 2. I’ve always known how the Sterling brothers felt about me. To the outside world, I was the one who hit the jackpot. They were the golden boys of the Beast-kin Academy—elite soldiers, stunningly handsome, and incredibly powerful. They were the apex predators of high society. I, on the other hand, was plain, quiet, and unremarkable. A weed growing in the shadow of giants. If it weren’t for our freakishly high genetic compatibility score, the Government would never have matched us. We would have lived in different universes. At first, I was thrilled. Having grown up in the foster system, all I ever wanted was a family. I naively thought Caleb and Silas were the family the universe had finally granted me. No matter how cold they were or how much they looked down on me, I acted like I didn’t feel it. I remained warm, doting, and eager to please. Every time they ate a meal I prepared, I felt a surge of worth. I felt needed. But the first six months were brutal. Both of them resented the match. Their rivals in the military teased them for being paired with a “nobody.” For two men with egos as high as theirs, it was a humiliation. They took that frustration out on me. Caleb was at least stable; he treated me like I was invisible, maintaining a cold, professional distance. Silas, however, was a firestorm. He criticized everything from my looks to the way I walked. In his mouth, I was a “useless waste of space.” But then, slowly, things seemed to change. Caleb stopped treating me like a ghost. He began to thank me for the milk. Sometimes, he would reach out and ruffle my hair, a gesture of affection common among Beast-kin couples. I was so starved for it that I was practically overwhelmed. Even Silas started mocking me less. He’d occasionally drag me into his video games, yelling at me for being a “noob” while simultaneously headshotting anyone who tried to kill my character. I thought I had finally reached them. I thought my hard work was paying off. Until the glass shattered. All those months of effort and hope were condensed into three words: A desperate puppy. 3. I didn’t sleep well for days after that. The shame followed me everywhere. I began to avoid them both, moving through the house like a shadow. When my best friend heard about it, she was livid. I stared at my sleeves, picking at a loose thread. “It’s fine. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll just keep my distance. We’ll be civil, and that’s it.” The match was a legal contract. I provided the emotional stability they needed during their “heat” cycles, and they provided the status and security I needed. It was just an exchange. “Are you still going to bring them milk?” she asked. I thought about it. “I suppose. I should maintain some level of decency.” She hesitated, then said, “Don’t you think it’s a bit unfair if you keep giving them both the same thing?” Fair? Because Caleb and Silas are identical twins and our compatibility is so high, the social workers at the Matching Bureau emphasized one thing: Balance. “In a multi-Beast household, the Human partner must be the anchor,” they told me. “You have to be perfectly fair. Any favoritism will trigger their instincts, cause jealousy, and break the balance of the home.” I took that to heart. I measured everything. Two glasses of milk. Two sets of gifts. Even when I packed their lunches, I counted the pieces of shrimp to make sure they were identical. “But Silas was the only one who treated you like trash,” my friend pointed out. “Caleb didn’t say a word. In fact, he defended you.” I looked down at the bandage on my leg. Caleb had knelt on the floor that night. He had been so serious while cleaning the wound. He gave me a piece of chocolate from his pocket, wiped my tears, and stayed until I fell asleep. He even apologized for his brother. “Exactly,” she continued. “They treat you completely differently, yet they get the same reward. If I were Caleb—the ‘good’ one—I’d feel like my kindness didn’t matter. Is that fair?” I wanted to argue, but I didn’t know how. That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about a time at the orphanage. A volunteer asked for help moving boxes. Everyone else went to play, but I stayed and worked all afternoon until my hands were red. At the end, we all got the same backpacks as a reward. Even the kid who spent the whole afternoon chasing butterflies got one. But as the volunteer was leaving, she pulled me aside and pressed two small hair clips into my hand. “The backpack is for everyone,” she whispered. “But these are for you. A well-behaved child deserves an extra reward. That’s what’s actually fair.” The volunteer’s words fought with the social worker’s instructions in my head. Finally, the volunteer won. 4. The milk was just the beginning. In the evenings, I stopped sitting exactly in the middle of the sofa. I sat closer to Caleb, leaving a clear gap between me and Silas. I stopped saying “Good morning” to Silas. I only offered a soft smile to Caleb. If I had a question, I asked Caleb. If we went to a party, I only took Caleb’s arm. Even at dinner, I was blatantly biased. If there were ten shrimp, eight went onto Caleb’s plate. At first, I was terrified. Breaking the “balance” felt like walking a tightrope. But the change wasn’t what I expected. Caleb, though quiet, never made me feel small. When I sat near him, he would naturally rest a hand on my wrist or ask if I wanted a snack. When I said good morning, he’d ask how I slept. He ate every bite of my food and thanked me sincerely. By stopping my attempts to win over Silas, I stopped being pushed away. I wasn’t ignored anymore. I wasn’t embarrassed on the street by a partner who was ashamed to hold my hand. I didn’t have to listen to my cooking being called “trash.” I hid behind Caleb’s quiet strength and enjoyed the peace. But the atmosphere in the house turned… weird. Several times, I felt a gaze burning into my back. But when I turned around, Silas was just staring at the TV, looking bored. If he caught me looking, he’d sneer. “What? You want to play a game? You’re going to lose anyway.” In the past, I would have taken that as an invitation and jumped at the chance to spend time with him. Now, I just shook my head and went back to what I was doing. One afternoon, Caleb and I were heading out to play badminton—my new favorite hobby. As we reached the door, a loud crash came from the living room. I turned back. Silas had smashed his controller against the floor. He looked at us with dark, narrowed eyes, his gaze landing on where my hand was tucked into Caleb’s arm. “Brother,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “This is getting pathetic. You’re actually enjoying the ‘good guy’ act, aren’t you? Acting like you actually like this loser.” 5. “Loser.” “Ugly.” “Waste of space.” I hadn’t heard those words in a while. When we were first matched, Silas’s hatred was public. He had even fought with the Bureau staff to have the match overturned. It wasn’t until the first time I helped them through their “heat.” That’s the only time I see their Beast forms. The fierce, terrifying snow leopards of the military become like giant housecats. They purr. They nuzzle me. They call me “Wife” and fight over who gets to sleep with their head in my lap. I used to blush at the affection. My friend told me that during these moments, even the coldest Beast-kin softens. After those cycles, Silas stopped attacking my looks. I thought I had finally won him over. But it was just a physical reaction. I told myself that Silas was just young and spoiled. I had hurt his pride by choosing Caleb, so he was lashing out. But even with that logic, the “loser” comment stung. I couldn’t sleep. I got up to get a glass of water. The balcony light was on. Caleb and Silas were out there. One was standing by the railing, the other leaning against the wall. The glow of a cigarette flickered. I stood in the shadows of the hallway and listened.

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My family didn’t just punish me for being too sharp, too honest. They erased me. For a decade, I was exiled to a locked-down industrial processing facility far out in the Arizona desert. It wasn’t enough to make me wear a chemical mask for fourteen hours straight, seven days a week. Even off the line, I wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone. It was their definition of ‘tough love’: “Cure that venomous tongue of yours, and learn to shut up.” Day after day, year after year, I lived the same monotonous loop, not even allowed home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. In the tenth year, desperate for the bus ticket back East, I took a triple shift for the foreman’s son who had a fever—seventy-two hours straight on the line. The machinery’s roar was the last thing I heard before I collapsed. The fever, combined with the extreme exhaustion, permanently ravaged my vocal cords. The day I received the medical report, my brother found me. Spencer rolled up in a gleaming Rolls-Royce, looking pristine in a bespoke Italian suit. “Ashley,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Ten years. Mom and Dad say the punishment is over. Are you finally rid of that temper?” “Come home with me, Sis. The family is having a proper reunion this year.” I stared at him, my mouth opening, but no sound came out. … I was wearing the factory’s threadbare canvas coat, permanently permeated with the smell of cheap oil and chemicals. “Get in. What are you standing around for?” Spencer frowned, his perfect features momentarily marred. “Ten years, and you’re still so… vacant? Can’t you even greet someone?” I looked at him, my throat feeling like a wad of ice-soaked cotton was lodged deep inside. I wanted to call out, “Brother,” but my vocal cords produced nothing more than a raw, hissing whisper of air. “Fine. I guess the ten-year fix worked. You finally learned to be quiet.” He gave a short, cruel laugh. “Your mouth used to be a toxic waste pump. Guess silence really is golden after all, huh?” I silently opened the door and curled up against the far corner of the back seat. Spencer caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Fasten the seatbelt. And please, don’t rub against the upholstery. I just had the car detailed.” I looked down at my hands—thick with calluses, the nails packed with black grime. They trembled as I reached for the buckle. Click. The sound was shockingly loud in the luxurious silence of the car. “Listen up. Mom and Dad invited all the relatives over for dinner tonight.” “You need to behave. Don’t bring that gutter attitude you used to have.” He paused, letting the silence fester. “This decade was your own doing, Ashley. Don’t come home playing the victim. We did this for your own good—to temper you, so you don’t embarrass yourself when you finally marry.” For my good? Throwing me into a sealed facility, confiscating my ID, cutting off all contact—that was for my good? Forcing me to breathe in caustic agents for fourteen hours a day—that was for my good? For ten years, I’d existed like a ghost in a machine. Because I was muted. Truly, completely muted. “Ashley! I’m talking to you!” His voice snapped. “Are you deaf and dumb? Can’t even let out a grunt?” I steadied myself, turned, and locked my dead gaze on him. “Fine. Play your little game.” “Let’s see how long you can keep the act up.” “You have another coming when we get home.” The Rolls-Royce glided into the familiar, exclusive Kensington estate. Spencer pulled into the drive and exited immediately, not bothering to wait for me. I pulled out my single piece of luggage—a tattered, canvas utility bag, a gift from a kind co-worker, holding everything I owned. “Oh, Spencer is such a success! I hear the company’s IPO is right on track!” “Richard is such a great father. Two accomplished children. What a fortunate man.” Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, saw me and her smile froze, replaced instantly by a look of undisguised disdain. “Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence. The eldest daughter is back.” That single, barbed announcement hit the living room like a power outage. The excited chatter stopped cold. All eyes swiveled to me. “Still remember the way back, do you?” My father, Richard, set his expensive china cup down. “Ten years. How was the reflection?” I stood in the grand marble foyer. My worn sneakers, still dusty from the industrial zone, stood out against the polished floor. I wanted to change shoes, but of course, there were no slippers waiting for me. Ten years. This house had long ago purged any trace of my existence. I simply kicked off my sneakers and stepped onto the cold marble. The chill shot straight up from my soles to my skull. “Ashley, come here and let your mother look at you.” My mother, Victoria, didn’t rise. She merely waved a hand, the gesture resembling one calling an errant stray. “A bit thin. But much calmer now.” “That wild look is gone. Good.” “I guess your brother was right. That place certainly knows how to whip someone into shape.” My brother? It was my beloved brother who suggested sending me to hell? “Mom, she’s perfectly docile now,” Spencer said, strolling over and resting a possessive hand on my shoulder. “Didn’t argue once on the ride. Quiet as a lady.” “Is that so? Good. Then our tough love wasn’t wasted.” “Since you’re fixed, you can stay home. Run errands for Spencer’s company. Do some low-level administrative work.” “Just don’t go out and embarrass the family.” Administrative work? I had been an honors student with a full scholarship to a top-tier university. In their eyes, ten years of suffering only qualified me to fetch coffee and file papers? Spencer leaned in, his voice a low warning in my ear. “Don’t push your luck. All the relatives are watching.” Just then, my Aunt Candace approached, a handful of mixed nuts clutched in her hand. “Oh, honey, is that Ashley? Why are you dressed like that?” “You look like you just stumbled off a freight train. When was the last time those clothes were washed?” She dramatically covered her nose and stepped back two paces. “What is that smell? It’s awful.” The surrounding relatives began to whisper, their eyes narrowed in judgment. “A lost cause, really.” “How did the Kensingtons produce a daughter like that?” “Thank God Spencer is the successful one.” I stood at the center of the glittering room. On the back of my hand, a blister from the day before, courtesy of a hot piece of machinery, had split open during my nervous fidgeting. Yellow pus mixed with blood seeped out, a white-hot agony. No one noticed. My mother, clearly sensing I was an embarrassment to her facade, stood up with an impatient sigh. “Alright, that’s enough. Go wash up and put on some clean clothes.” “Mrs. Gable, show her to the guest room.” The guest room? What about my room? I glanced up at the window on the second floor that used to be mine. “Oh, that room is Spencer’s private collection now,” my mother dismissed, waving a hand. “You weren’t using it, so it was just wasted space.” “The guest room is fine. It gets good light.” I had lost my voice, and now, even my last physical foothold in this house had been completely erased. I was shown to a small room next to the housekeeper’s pantry on the ground floor. Mrs. Gable tossed me a bundle of old clothing—her leftover cleaning uniforms. “Here, Miss Ashley. Make do. Your things were tossed ages ago.” “The Mistress says to help in the kitchen after your shower. We’re short-staffed for the New Year’s Eve party.” I took the clothes, which reeked of mothballs, and retreated to the bathroom. Hot water cascaded over me, stinging the small, unhealed cuts and scrapes. I looked at the person in the mirror. Straw-like hair, sunken cheeks, and dull, vacant eyes. A vicious red scar circled my neck—a result of clawing at my own skin during the delirious fever. I opened my mouth, facing the glass, and tried to force a sound. “Hhh—aaah.” After the shower, I left the work uniform untouched. Instead, I pulled my one decent item from the utility bag. It was a cheap, red synthetic sweater, bought for me by my co-workers. “Ashley,” they’d said. “Wear red for the holidays. It’s festive.” I put it on. It was scratchy and itched my skin, but it gave me a fleeting warmth. Mrs. Gable was directing a few temp staff in the kitchen. “If you won’t talk, then work,” she ordered. “Peel these. And be quick about it.” I silently squatted and picked up a peeler. This motion was second nature. On the assembly line, every movement had to be timed to the fraction of a second. Slow down, and the line supervisor would scream until your ears bled. I mechanically skinned potatoes, listening to the laughter and accolades echoing from the living room. “Spencer, I hear you bought your parents a seaside condo?” “Yes, well, they worked hard. It’s time for them to relax.” “Such a devoted son! Unlike that other girl—ten years and not a single call.” “Don’t mention her. Bad luck.” My father’s booming voice cut in. “It’s a good night. We won’t discuss that rebellious daughter.” “Come on, everyone, have some more champagne.” My knife slipped an inch. The sharp blade sliced a neat cut into my fingertip. Blood bloomed instantly. I didn’t pause. I lifted the finger, sucked the metallic tang of the blood into my mouth, and kept peeling. One, two, three… I didn’t stop until the entire basket of potatoes was done. My hands were wrinkled and ghostly white from the ice water, the cut on my finger weeping white. “Good. Now take this out.” Mrs. Gable pointed to a platter of glazed ham she had just finished. “Careful. Don’t drop that. The platter is an antique.” In the living room, the long dining table was laden with food. Everyone was seated except for one space—the tightest corner, where a backless, round stool had been placed. That was my spot. I placed the heavy ham platter in the center of the table. As I was about to sit down, Spencer’s voice stopped me. “Wait.” He swirled a glass of red wine. “Little Sis, since you’re back, don’t you think you should offer a toast to your elders?” “It’s tradition.” My father nodded approvingly. “He’s right. It’s respect. You might have been disrespectful before, but now that you’re reformed, you need to show some class.” “Pour the drinks.” Spencer slid a glass decanter of strong rye whiskey in front of me. I looked at the clear liquid. My stomach seized up. The facility’s poor conditions had left me with chronic, severe digestive issues. The doctor had warned me against even a drop of alcohol. I shook my head and pointed to my abdomen. “What? Too good for us?” Aunt Candace’s voice was venomous. “Back five minutes and already pulling rank?” “Your brother is honoring you. Don’t be rude.” Spencer’s face darkened. “Ashley, don’t make me lose my temper.” “It’s Christmas Eve. I don’t want a scene.” A scene. He’d always hit me when I displeased him as a child. My parents never intervened, only saying, “Your brother is teaching you discipline.” I took a deep breath and picked up the decanter. I poured a measure of the potent whiskey for every elder at the table. When I got to Spencer, he deliberately held his glass high. The whiskey sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the sleeve of his bespoke suit. “Smack!” He slammed his hand on the table and rose. “Are you blind?! You did that on purpose!” “You really do need a beating, don’t you?” He raised his hand, ready to strike. My mother quickly stepped in. “Stop it, stop it! It’s the holidays. Don’t lower yourself.” “Ashley, clean up your mess! Now!” I pulled a napkin from the holder and reached out to wipe his sleeve. Spencer roughly shoved me away. I stumbled back, hitting the corner of the small, backless stool with my lower back. A sharp, blinding pain shot through me, leaving me gasping for air. But I made no sound. Not because I chose not to. Because I couldn’t. Spencer tore off his jacket in disgust and threw it to the floor. “Useless, honestly.” “Worse than a waitress.” “Sit down and eat. Just looking at you ruins my appetite.” I quietly righted the stool and perched myself on the edge. The bowl in front of me remained empty. I watched them toast each other, revel in their perfect family moment. I was just a silent backdrop, there to make their happiness look brighter, their success feel more earned. The wine flowed, and the atmosphere peaked. My father, slightly drunk, his face flushed, raised his glass again. “To my relatives! I want to say a few special words.” His voice was loud and proud. “You all know ten years ago, Ashley was out of control. A venomous mouth, constantly offending people.” “To teach her a lesson, your mother, Spencer, and I made a difficult choice. We sent her away for some heavy-duty reform.” “These ten years have been hard on us, too, but for a child’s future, you must be ruthless!” The relatives nodded in unison. “Yes, Richard, you made the hard choice.” “A father’s sacrifice!” My father smiled, satisfied, and pointed at me. “Now, you see the result! Our method worked!” “Look at Ashley now! So quiet! So compliant! She does what she’s told, doesn’t cause a scene.” “As we say: The stone must be polished to become a gem!” My mother’s eyes watered with performative emotion. “Yes, Ashley. Stand up. Thank your father and your brother.” “Without them, you’d still be rotting in some ditch somewhere.” Spencer leaned back, idly playing with a lighter, a smirk of triumph on his face. “Little Sis, say something.” “It’s been ten years. We’d love to hear your voice.” “Even just ‘I’m sorry’ would be a start. Show some remorse.” “Come on, Ashley. Say a few words.” Every eye was on me again. Say something? I wanted to say: I despise you. I wanted to say: Where were you when I was being abused in the barracks? I wanted to say: What were you doing while I was feverish and desperate for that ticket home? I wanted to say: I hurt. My throat hurt. My heart hurt more. Spencer’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Ashley, don’t disrespect our father.” “He asked you to speak. Are you deaf? What is this, some kind of protest?” “I swear, I’ll send you back there for another decade.” Another ten years of that dark, dehumanizing existence? I instinctively flinched. “Speak!” My father lost his patience. “If you don’t open your mouth and apologize tonight, then get out of my house and never come back!” “The Kensingtons don’t house ungrateful filth!”

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The blood test for my brother’s school enrollment came back, showing an impossible blood type. My father threatened divorce. The DNA test results: my brother was actually my mother’s maternal half-brother. The boy I’d called my little brother for seven years was, in reality, my uncle. It turned out, when the only son became a family joke, the unwanted daughter could finally become a winning lottery ticket. 1 The year my mother, Denise, was pregnant with my brother, the desperation to have a boy was palpable. They’d even bought a special statue, a sort of desperate, last-ditch attempt at invoking fate. When the ultrasound confirmed it was a boy, my father, Robert Heather, paraded up and down the hallway, handing out cigars and announcing to every neighbor, “A son for the Heather line!” My room was emptied out and painted a sickly baby blue. The corner of the living room, partitioned by a worn, floral sheet, became my new bedroom. “Get rid of this junk,” Mom said, pointing at my faded stuffed animals and my third-grade spelling bee trophy. “It’s taking up space. This is for my son.” My brother, Brock, was born and instantly nicknamed “Champ.” I, on the other hand, was most often referred to as “the girl,” or simply, nothing at all. At the dinner table, Mom would scrape the brussels sprouts Brock didn’t like into my bowl. “Eat this. It’s the same nutrition,” she’d snap. If Brock threw a tantrum and knocked over a glass of iced tea, I was the one yelled at for not having cleared the table fast enough. When Brock was in kindergarten, they bought him the latest $250 PlayStation. They didn’t even blink. When I was in middle school and needed a $30 SAT prep book, I had to endure two weeks of Mom’s complaints. “Throwing money away! Why bother with all those books? You’re a girl, you’ll be fine after a couple years of high school. Mrs. Miller at the diner is hiring; you can learn a trade and start bringing home a paycheck.” Dad, Robert, rarely looked up from the television. “Your mother’s right, Vera. Three years of high school tuition is better spent getting a job. Find a nice, steady man in a few years, and our job will be done.” I stared at the only full family photo in the house—Brock’s first birthday portrait. I was standing on the very edge, my smile looking more like a grimace. In the future they had drawn up for me, I was a line sloping straight down: dropout, low-wage job, marriage, my brief value used solely to prop up the world built around my brother. 2 The uneasy peace lasted until the summer I finished eighth grade. Brock was getting ready to start elementary school. His entry medical report came out that Thursday morning. At lunchtime, Dad slammed the piece of paper onto the glass tabletop. Brock, startled, stopped demanding his grilled cheese sandwich. His spoon clattered into his bowl, splashing milk. “Our son is AB positive,” Dad said, his eyes drilling into Mom. “I’m A positive. You’re O positive. Tell me, Denise, how did we make an AB-type child?” “Stop yelling! You’re scaring our Champ!” Mom was already defensive. Having Brock was the only thing that had given her any power in the house, and she used it without reservation. “Was it the maintenance guy? The one who fixed the sink last month? You’ve been wearing makeup just to take out the trash since he moved in.” “That’s trash! The clinic must have made a mistake!” Mom snatched the paper, but her fingers were white, gripping the edge of the tablecloth. “I took him myself this morning,” Dad yanked Brock away, who was already starting to cry. He passed the kitchen where I was washing dishes. “You come too.” After the blood draw, Mom took Brock and soothed him into his room. As she shut the door, I heard his quiet, terrified sobs. Spoiled since birth, he had never seen our parents behave like this. I went to the laundry room to hang up the clothes. In the living room, Mom was cracking sunflower seeds, spitting the shells onto the rug. “When that stupid report comes back, I’m suing that clinic for emotional damages, fifty thousand dollars minimum,” she ranted. “And you, Robert Heather, don’t think this is going to be easy on you, either!” Dad didn’t reply. He chain-smoked, the ashtray quickly piling up with butts. 3 The follow-up DNA Paternity Test results weren’t due until Monday afternoon. The entire weekend was suffocating. Dad smoked constantly, filling the air with acrid smoke, and Mom had lost her patience with Brock’s constant whining. Saturday afternoon, my best friend from school texted, asking if I wanted to meet up at the library to look for used AP study guides. It was the only thing I had looked forward to all summer. I was about to leave when Brock, a little wrecking ball, charged over and hugged my legs. “Sissy, play with me! I want you to be the villain!” “I have to go out for a little while, Brock. How about I play with you all night when I get back?” “No! Now!” His mouth instantly crumpled, ready for a full-volume wail. Mom poked her head out of the kitchen, her expression sour. “Where are you running off to now? Your brother needs you. Stay home and watch him. Don’t you have any sense of responsibility as an older sister?” “Mom, you said I could go to the library with Emily, just for a little bit…” “I said nothing of the sort! Don’t you see what’s happening in this house? Stay here and look after him.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “You are to stay here and watch your brother.” The last flicker of hope I had for the afternoon extinguished. As Mom turned back to the kitchen, I sighed and knelt, trying to reason with the boy. He picked up a throw pillow and tossed it in my face. “Mess-maker!” “Brock Heather, stop that right now! I’m serious.” “You wouldn’t dare!” he shrieked back. He ran to the living room corner that was my “bedroom,” the floral sheet curtain flapping behind him. My heart seized. I chased after him. “What are you doing?” Too late. He darted behind the curtain and instantly spotted the thick Manila envelope tucked under my pillow. It was my acceptance letter to Northwood High—a scholarship offer, the proof of my countless late nights studying amidst the living room chaos and his crying fits. “What’s this?” He picked it up curiously. “Put that down! Don’t touch it!” My voice cracked. Seeing my panic, he was instantly energized. He held the envelope high, a nasty, triumphant grin on his face. “Daddy, Mommy, Sissy is hiding something!” “Give it back!” I lunged for it. “No! No! You’re a loser’s trash!” I watched in horror as he grabbed the envelope with both small hands and ripped it in half. RIIIP— The sound tore through my chest. The paper with my name and my future was split down the middle. He wasn’t done. He ripped it a few more times, the pieces fluttering down like cold confetti around his feet. I stared at the fragments on the rug, my mind ringing. Months of quiet endurance, injustice, and the faint, precious hope for a different future were shredded to dust in that moment. “Ah!” I made a sound I didn’t recognize, a low, guttural snarl. I flew at him, pushing him to the floor, pinning him down, my fists raining down. “I hate you! I hate you!” Brock was stunned silent for a second, then he erupted into an ear-splitting scream. “WAAH… Mommy! Sissy hit me! Mommy, help!” Mom rushed in and saw me on top of him. Her eyes went instantly red. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me off him. The force sent me staggering back, my head hitting the corner of my small footlocker. The back of my skull throbbed. “How dare you lay a hand on your brother! It’s just a stupid paper! So what if it’s ripped? Did you actually think you were going to some fancy high school? Never! You toxic little girl, how could you be so mean? He’s your brother!” Brock hid behind her, weeping theatrically, yet giving me a smug little smirk. Mom hugged him, checking him for bruises, cooing, “There, there, Champ. Mommy’s here, Mommy will get her! This bad luck charm, daring to hurt my son!” My arms hurt. My scalp felt raw. But none of it mattered compared to the hollow ache in my chest. Dad came in from the porch, took one look, and just barked impatiently, “What’s all this noise? Haven’t we had enough drama?” His gaze skimmed the shredded paper on the floor, didn’t pause, and he turned around to go back to staring out the window, lighting another cigarette. The smoke, curling around his back, blurred my last shred of hope for this family. I ignored Mom’s curses and Brock’s triumphant glare. I knelt, picking up the fragments, one by one, carefully taping my future back together with clear scotch tape. 4 Dad went to retrieve the DNA test results alone on Monday. After I finished tidying the house until it was spotless, I approached Mom. “Mom, school starts soon. Can you advance me the tuition and boarding fees for the first semester of high school?” “I told you, if you insist on going to that money pit of a high school, you’ll have to earn the money yourself.” I was about to offer to pay her back double next semester when the front door opened. Dad walked in, clutching a manila envelope. “Let me see that.” Mom swaggered toward him, brimming with anticipation. Dad avoided her, tossing the envelope onto the coffee table. He walked over to me and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good girl, Vera. Go wait in your brother’s room.” “…Okay.” A breath of relief escaped me. I was their daughter. But a strange sense of loss settled over me, too. I slowly closed the door, leaving a crack, a sliver of an opening. I had a bad feeling. Dad ignored Mom, walking straight up to Brock and squatting down. “You won’t call me Dad anymore.” WAAAH! Brock dissolved into tears. Mom picked up the report, her eyes scanning the text, then freezing on a specific line. “This is impossible…” Her lips trembled. “It’s in black and white,” Dad stood up. “He’s your mother’s son. Your maternal half-brother.” Brock’s crying intensified. For the first time, Mom screamed at him. “Stop it! Are you putting on a show for a funeral!” The room fell into a terrifying silence. Mom stared blankly at Dad, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to digest the seven words. Then, as if struck, she fixed her gaze on Brock, who was huddled on the sofa. Her eyes held no trace of the usual doting affection. She walked towards him, slowly. She knelt in front of him, her fingers roughly kneading his cheek, as if checking a strange, unfamiliar object. “Maternal… half-brother?” she repeated. “Then… where is my son? The one I carried for nine months?!” “Mommy, you’re hurting me.” Brock was terrified and tried to pull away, but she gripped his shoulder tightly. Her nails dug into his soft skin, drawing a bead of blood. “Where is my son?!” Her voice rose to a shriek, sharp and piercing. “I gave birth to a boy! Where did he go?!” “Shut up!” Dad threw the ashtray across the room. “Go over to your sister’s house and ask your brother’s real mother!” It was Aunt Marilyn’s turn to host Grandma Patty for the month. When she opened the door, Aunt Marilyn, or ‘Mel,’ was confused by the sight of us. Before she could speak, Mom strode past her, yanking Grandma Patty away from the vegetables she was prepping in the kitchen. Grandma Patty stumbled, sending lettuce leaves scattering across the floor. “Ouch, what’s going on? Are you trying to kill your old mother?” Mom dragged Brock to the ground in front of Grandma. Brock, his throat raw from crying, hugged Mom’s pant leg. “Mommy, don’t leave me…” “There, there, don’t cry, come to your Aunt Mel.” Aunt Mel had had several painful miscarriages and was always extra protective of Brock. “If your mom doesn’t want you, your Aunt Mel does.” Aunt Mel had always quietly hoped that if she couldn’t have a child, Brock would grow up to take care of her. “Sister, whether you want him or not, you’re stuck with him.” Mom sneered, clutching the crumpled report as she walked toward Grandma Patty. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Aunt Mel looked baffled. “He’s Mom’s son.” Aunt Mel almost laughed, holding Brock close and wiping his tears. “Champ, look at your mother. She’s just angry at Grandma. We’re not listening to her. I’ll take you out for pizza.” Mom gritted her teeth, trying to suppress her fury. “Mom, why aren’t you saying anything?” The color slowly drained from Grandma Patty’s face. 5 “Mom, say something!” Aunt Mel’s eyes darted between Grandma and Mom, finally realizing the gravity of the situation. “When I gave birth to him in the country, you were the only one there,” Mom’s voice started to tremble. “You said the baby had fluid in his lungs and needed to be rushed to a special clinic… you said he made it, but he was weak, and you told me to focus on resting, that you’d take care of him…” Grandma Patty avoided her gaze, her lips opening and closing, unable to offer an explanation. Aunt Mel held the struggling Brock close, taking out her phone. “Vera, quickly, call your Uncle Curtis. Don’t let them start fighting.” “No, no, no! It was you who insisted on staying at your sister’s farm for a few months! Dad was dead then—who did you sleep with to make this bastard?!” Mom grabbed Grandma Patty’s shoulders and shook her hard. “Where did you put my son?!” “I, I…” Grandma Patty squeezed her eyes shut, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. “You what?!” Dad’s voice was a sharp roar. “If anything happened to my son, I swear I’ll kill you!” Grandma Patty’s knees buckled. She crumpled to the floor, curling into herself. “I… I left him… at the farm.” “Left him at the farm?” Mom repeated softly. “You gave my son away? You switched him with your… your bad seed?” Grandma Patty stayed kneeling, covering her face, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Mom lunged at her. “Where is my son?! Tell me!” Aunt Mel, seeing the situation escalating, forced a strained smile, trying to calm things down. “Sister, calm down. Mom, this must be a mistake. Mom is an old woman; this is absurd.” Aunt Mel’s voice was losing conviction fast. Then, she saw her husband, Curtis, finally arrive, her last hope.

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“Your mother left you an item.” The lawyer’s voice was calm, reciting a standard legal script. My brother received one point five million dollars. My sister received one point five million dollars. Then, my turn. The lawyer paused for three seconds, looking directly at me. “A photograph.” I froze. “What kind of photo?” She slid an envelope across the mahogany table. I opened it. Inside was a twenty-year-old snapshot. In the picture, I was seventeen, standing in the overgrown yard of our old house, wearing a stupid, lopsided grin. On the back, a line in my mother’s messy handwriting— “Hang in there, kiddo. Go get that degree.” Cameron and Madeline exchanged a glance. No one spoke. 1. I stared at the photo for a long time. Seventeen-year-old me, a buzz cut, a worn high school jacket, standing beneath the sprawling branches of the old oak tree in our yard. It was a month before my college entrance exams. Mom had made a rare trip home and insisted on taking my picture. “The minute you get into State U., I’m going to blow this up and hang it right over the mantel.” She’d been smiling that day, even changed into a clean, white blouse just for the occasion. It was the only photo she ever took of me. And the last time she ever told me, “Hang in there.” “Rory?” Maddie’s voice broke the silence of the memory. “Are you okay?” I looked up at her. Her expression was complicated, a mix of pity and awkwardness. She wanted to comfort me, but didn’t know how. “I’m fine.” I slipped the photo back into the envelope and stood up. “Is the probate done? I’m leaving.” “Wait.” Cam called out. “Rory, aren’t you going to say something?” I turned and faced him. My older brother, Cameron Whittaker, was wearing a black leather jacket and shoes that looked like they cost more than my monthly rent. He’d been back from the UK for two years, living in a penthouse condo in the city; I heard his in-laws paid the down payment. “Say what?” “I mean…” He hesitated. “Don’t you think Mom’s distribution is a little…” “No.” I grabbed my cheap backpack. “It was Mom’s estate. Her call. The will is final. What’s there to talk about?” “But—” “Cam.” I cut him off. “You got your million five. I got my photo. We’re even. Let’s move on.” Cam’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Maddie stood beside him, looking down, trying to be invisible. I didn’t look at either of them again. I pushed the door open and walked out. A cold, biting rain was falling outside. I stood in the doorway of the office building and lit a cigarette. I had quit three years ago. Today, I was smoking again. One point five million dollars. One point five million dollars. One photo. I laughed, a sharp, dry sound that tasted like regret. I didn’t know what I was laughing at. Twenty years. From seventeen to thirty-seven, I had given everything to that family. In the end, all my mother had left me was a photo from twenty years ago. My phone rang. It was Dad. “Rory, is the reading over?” “It is.” “Where are your brother and sister?” “I don’t know. I left.” “Why didn’t you wait for them?” “Dad.” I took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I’m tired. I want to go home and rest.” “Home? Which home are you going to?” I paused, the air suddenly thick and cold. He was right. Which home? The old house, the one she’d promised to hang my picture in? Mom had clearly willed it to Maddie. My own place was a cramped, north-facing fifty-square-foot rental, two hundred miles away, costing me $1,800 a month. I didn’t own anything. I was thirty-seven, five years divorced, no kids, and my total savings amounted to less than twenty thousand dollars. The start of all this was that photo. The start was that summer when I was seventeen. I had scored in the top three percent in the state. My plan was the State Flagship University, English Literature major. My mother glanced at the acceptance letter and said one sentence— “Your brother’s college is already bleeding us dry, and your sister needs tutoring to get her scores up. We don’t have that kind of money for you.” That night, I cried myself sick under my blanket. The next morning, I ripped up the acceptance letter and signed up for a job at the local textile mill. I was seventeen. Cam was nineteen, already away at his expensive university. Maddie was sixteen. From that day on, my paycheck went straight to my father. I kept three hundred a month for bare necessities. The rest I sent home. To pay for Maddie’s tutoring. To pay for Cam’s university. To help with Maddie’s house down payment. To help with Cam’s wedding. It went on for fifteen years. “Rory? Are you still there?” Dad’s voice crackled on the phone. “I’m here.” “Your brother said he wants to take everyone out for dinner, a sort of way to honor your mother’s…” “I won’t be there.” “Rory!” “Dad, I’m tired.” I hung up. Standing in the rain, I smoked another cigarette. The photo was still in my bag. I touched the envelope, but didn’t pull it out. Twenty years. I finally knew what I was worth to my mother. Not one point five million. Not fifty thousand. Not even five thousand. One photo. One she hadn’t looked at in twenty years. 2. I took a cab back to my rental. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Everything alright, bud? You look rough.” “I’m fine. Just got soaked in the rain.” “Watch out for a cold. Nasty weather.” I nodded, leaning back and closing my eyes. My mind was a whirlpool of the past. I remembered the day the test scores came out. I had a 3.9 GPA and the kind of scores that got you a full-ride scholarship—the kind of kid the town pinned its hopes on. My homeroom teacher called, ecstatic: “Rory Kincaid! You are the best student to come out of this district in a decade! State U. is a lock!” My parents were thrilled for a few days. Relatives streamed in, congratulating them. My uncle said, “Bob, your boy is going to make something of himself! He’s getting out!” My aunt added, “A flagship school! That’s a first for this side of the county!” Dad was beaming, shoving chips and beer at everyone. Mom just sat on the porch, smoking, quiet, but I could tell she was proud. They were the happiest days I could remember. Then the acceptance letter arrived. I remember the day exactly: August 15th. The mail carrier drove his beat-up sedan into the driveway, shouting, “Rory Kincaid! Your letter is here!” I ran out and took the thick, beige envelope. My hands were shaking. I tore it open. Inside, a heavy, embossed red card. “State Flagship University, Department of English Literature.” I stared at the words, tears blurring my vision. I had done it. I had actually done it. Then Mom took the letter and looked at it. Her expression shifted. “How much is the tuition a year?” “Four thousand eight hundred dollars.” “Room and board?” “Eight hundred.” “How much for living expenses?” “…Maybe three to four hundred a month.” Mom didn’t say anything. She placed the letter on the kitchen table and the temperature in the room plummeted. That night, Mom and Dad talked for a long time behind their closed door. I put my ear to the crack to listen. Dad was pleading, “Let Rory go. The kid’s smart. He’ll make something of himself.” Mom’s voice was hard. “Where is the money, Robert? We don’t have it. Look at the Millers’ boy—he graduated and never came back. That money will be wasted.” Dad said, “But…” “Maddie needs to get ready for next year,” Mom interrupted. “Rory goes to school, that’s ten thousand a year. What about Maddie? She can’t fail, or she’ll be stuck here forever, just like us.” Dad fell silent. Then, the final surrender: “How are we going to tell Rory?” “I will.” The next morning, Mom called me out to the yard. She stood beneath the oak tree, looking out at the fading town behind our fence. “Rory.” “Mom.” “Your sister’s college prep next year, your brother’s tuition… the money’s short. You need to…” She didn’t finish the sentence. I understood everything. “You want me to stay home, don’t you?” She didn’t answer. She just dropped her cigarette butt, grinding it out with her heel. “You’re a man, Rory. School isn’t the only path. Get a steady job. That’s more important.” I stood there, paralyzed, unable to speak. Tears dropped onto the dusty ground. Mom looked at me, frowning. “Stop crying. I’m doing this for your own good.” For my own good. That night, I placed the acceptance letter deep in the bottom of my desk drawer. I didn’t tear it. I didn’t burn it. I just hid it there. Twenty years. I never opened that drawer again. The taxi stopped. The driver said, “We’re here, pal.” I snapped back to reality, paid him, and got out. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still an oppressive gray. I looked up at the window of my rented box. Fifth floor, north-facing, perpetually dim. I had lived here for five years. Five years ago, I moved from our small town to this city. Why? Because Mom had a stroke. The doctor said she would need long-term, intensive care. Cam was overseas. Maddie had just bought her first home. Dad was too old and frail to handle it alone. So, I came. I was thirty-two. I had worked at the local mill for fifteen years, finally making it up to Shift Supervisor. I quit the job. I sold the beat-up eight-year-old sedan. I rented this tiny apartment and became my mother’s full-time caregiver. Five years. 3. I unlocked the door. The apartment still held the distinct, inescapable smell. Disinfectant, old age, and a slight, persistent mildew. Five years. The scent was embedded in the drywall; it would never truly air out. I sank onto the couch and pulled the photo out of my bag. Seventeen-year-old me, smiling so brightly. I didn’t know that in three days, my life would be fundamentally redirected. I still thought that getting into college was the starting line of adulthood. I flipped the photo over and looked at the handwriting. “Hang in there, kiddo. Go get that degree.” My mother’s hand was clumsy, the script of a woman who hadn’t finished middle school. But I remembered those words for two decades. Wasn’t it ridiculous? The woman who barred me from college told me to “Go get that degree.” Then, I remembered the context. It was a month before the exam. Mom had come home for a few days—she worked long hours out of town, only making it back a few times a year. She brought a disposable camera—a cheap point-and-shoot someone had given her. “Rory, come here. Mom’s going to take your picture.” I stood beneath the oak tree, and she held the camera up. “Smile, son.” I smiled. She pressed the shutter. Then she said, “The day you get your acceptance, I’m blowing this up and hanging it over the mantel.” I nodded, feeling a warmth I hadn’t felt in months. But what happened next? I did get into college. No, I got in, but I didn’t go. The photo was never blown up. It never hung over the mantel. I assumed it was lost or thrown away. Now, twenty years later, it surfaced in her final will. It was my sole inheritance. My phone chimed. A text from Maddie. “Bro, about the way Mom divided things, I agree it wasn’t fair. I want to split my portion with you. You take half of my $1.5M.” I stared at the screen, motionless. Half. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Enough for a small condo in this city. Enough to secure my future. I typed a short reply. “No, thank you.” Send. Seconds later, Maddie’s name flashed on the screen. “Rory! Don’t be stubborn! I’m serious!” “I’m not stubborn.” “Then why won’t you take it?” “Because it’s not your money to give.” Maddie was silent. “What do you mean?” “That $1.5 million is what Mom left you. Since she was so clear on the division, she must have had her reasons. You keep it.” “But—” “Maddie.” I cut her off. “Do you remember who paid for your college tuition?” Silence from the other end. “I did,” I said. “Three years of high school tutoring, four years of college, three years of grad school. Your tuition, your living expenses, even the prep classes you took—it all came from me.” “Rory, I know! I’ve always remembered—” “Good. But I don’t need you to pay it back. That money was my gift to you back then. Consider it your older brother covering you.” “Rory…” “Do you remember how much your down payment and wedding fund came to?” Maddie didn’t answer. “Two hundred thousand dollars,” I supplied. “I contributed fifty thousand. The other hundred and fifty came from Mom and Dad, and sixty thousand of that was my money I’d been sending home for years.” “Rory, I…” “And what did Mom and Dad give me when I got married?” She stayed silent. “Two hundred dollars,” I answered for her. “An envelope full of bills, handed to me in front of all the guests.” “Rory, the family was tight on cash then—” “Tight on cash?” My voice finally rose. “The year you bought your house, Mom and Dad handed over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The year I got married, the family could only spare two hundred?” “I didn’t mean it like that…” “Maddie.” I took a deep breath, letting the smoke out slowly. “I’m not telling you this to demand payment. I’m telling you that I have paid my debt to this family, a thousand times over.” “Rory…” “Keep your $1.5 million. You and Cam can handle Dad and all the rest of it. I’m done.” “What are you saying?” “I’m tired.” I hung up the phone. I leaned back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Tired. God, I was exhausted. 4. I picked up the photograph again. Seventeen-year-old me, standing beneath the oak, smiling so brightly. Back then, I believed that hard work was all it took to change my destiny. Back then, I believed my parents wouldn’t let me go to college because they truly had no money. But what happened later? The year Maddie started college, my parents not only paid her tuition but bought her a brand-new laptop. That was 2008. A new laptop cost four or five thousand dollars. I had been working at the mill for five years, making barely eighteen hundred a month. The year Maddie graduated with her Master’s, Mom and Dad paid the down payment on her condo in the city. Two hundred thousand dollars. It was the money I had been sending home, combined with what they had saved. I told myself then that things had finally gotten better, that they were finally in a position to help her. I never thought about how much of that “help” was my sweat and blood. Now, I understood. From the start, Mom never intended for me to go to college. It wasn’t about money. It was about me being the middle child. “Can’t you just help the family out?” Her expression when she said that was perfectly calm. As if she were stating a simple, self-evident truth. The middle child should step aside for the eldest. The middle child should pay for the youngest. The eldest was the family’s face in the world. The youngest was the darling, who needed to be protected. The middle child? I was the anchor, the utility player, the one who kept the engine running. That was her logic. And, I realized, the logic of many people. I looked down at the photo. “Hang in there, kiddo. Go get that degree.” A bitter laugh escaped me. That was the extent of my mother’s hope for me. A four-word instruction. Hang in there. And then what? Then she told me to stay home. I placed the photo on the coffee table, stood up, and walked into the kitchen for a glass of water. Outside, the sky had darkened. The rain was beginning again. I thought of five years ago. Maddie called me, hysterical, saying Mom had collapsed and was hospitalized with a stroke. “Rory, the doctor says it’s serious. Can you come home?” I took the first overnight train. When I arrived at the hospital, Mom was lying in bed, half of her body paralyzed. Dad sat beside her, his face a mask of worry. Cam? In the UK. He called and said he “absolutely couldn’t get the time off,” and told Dad to “take care.” Maddie? She was in the hall, talking on the phone, anxious. I overheard fragments— “The mortgage is due next month. With Mom like this, I just don’t have the cash…” That night, the doctor called us into his office. “Her condition is not good. She needs long-term rehabilitation and constant care. Your family needs to discuss who will be the full-time caregiver.” I looked at Dad, in his sixties and not well himself. I looked at Maddie, newly married, with a baby on the way. Cam in the UK was a non-starter. “I will do it.” I said the words without hesitation. Because I knew there was no one else. Since childhood, whenever a crisis hit this family, I was the one who was expected to absorb the impact. “Rory, what about your job back home?” Maddie asked. “I’ll quit.” “But—” “No buts.” I said. “You focus on your new life. Dad’s too old, Cam won’t come back. I’ll take care of Mom.” Maddie opened her mouth but said nothing. Dad took my hand, tears in his eyes. “Rory, I’m so sorry to ask this of you…” “Dad, I’m your son. Taking care of Mom is what I should do.” When I said it, I believed it. Now, I realized the absurdity. Taking care of Mom was “what I should do,” but what part of Mom’s estate was mine? Five years. Eighteen hundred-plus days. I turned her, bathed her, fed her, and managed her physical therapy. I drove her to appointments, picked up her medication, and managed the hospital stays. I got up every two hours at night to make sure she hadn’t kicked the blanket off or messed with her catheter bag. I never slept a full night. I never took a trip. I never made a new friend. I quit my job at thirty-two. At thirty-seven, I was practically unemployable. Who hires a thirty-seven-year-old with no college degree and a five-year gap on their resume? And the origin of all this was that photo. That summer I was seventeen. That moment my mother asked, “Can’t you just help the family out?” Now what? My mother was dead. The estate totaled $3 million. Cam got $1.5 million. Maddie got $1.5 million. Me? A twenty-year-old photo. I stood at the window, cup in hand, looking at the rain. I finally understood. That photo was the last testament to my mother seeing me. Twenty years ago, she remembered to take my picture and tell me to “Hang in there.” Twenty years later, she only saw my siblings. Her inheritance wasn’t a gift. It was a reminder. A reminder that I was never the priority.

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A pristine, lace dress now hung in my closet. It was a jarring, almost offensive presence among my simple, worn clothes. I ran a hand over the soft fabric, a smile—one I hadn’t realized was missing—spreading across my face. “Getting all romantic with the surprise birthday gifts, are we? After all these years, Alistair?” I was giddy. I excitedly slipped it on. I didn’t even glance in the mirror before I heard the front door open. I hurried out of the bedroom, laughing. “Honey, it’s a little snug, but I haven’t taken the tag off! Can we exchange it for the next size up?” But Alistair wasn’t alone. His student was with him. The young woman looked me up and down, a nasty little smirk twisting her mouth. “Professor Wells’s wife,” she drawled. “You’re wearing my dress.” She burst into an ugly, high-pitched laugh. “How did you even manage to stuff yourself into that? It’s hilarious. You look like a sausage about to burst its casing. Please tell me you haven’t stretched it out.” My face flushed crimson, the heat stinging my cheeks. I turned to Alistair, expecting him to deliver a sharp rebuke to her insolence. Instead, he scanned me with a look of cold indifference, then spoke. “Take it off, Cathy. It’s pretty repulsive.” The words were a physical blow. I stared at him, my world silent as something immense and central within me collapsed into dust. When he returned from walking the student out, I fixed him with a hard, unwavering gaze. “Do you have anything to say to me?” I demanded. Alistair rubbed his temples, his expression already weary. “She’s just a kid, Cathy. A little tactless, maybe. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” I gave a short, bitter laugh. “Professor Wells, you’ve missed the point.” “I’m not angry at her. I’m angry at you.” … 1 Standing in the entryway, with both of them staring at me, I felt more exposed than if I had been fully naked. The shame burned. I bolted back into the bedroom, not stopping until I was behind the locked door. This time, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Yes, the dress was a struggle. It strained across my middle, pulling tight over my belly. But that strain wasn’t just fat. It was the result of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a condition I’d developed years ago. When Alistair and I were kids, we both lived in Red Clay Creek, a smudge of a town we desperately wanted to escape. I only had my aging grandmother. He only had his mother, sick and struggling. The kind of tight bond that forms when two people are all the other has kept us close. Alistair was brilliant. The only way out for a kid like him, the local teacher said, was a college scholarship. I made sure he got it. I left town and moved to Amesport, a brutal port city, to work. I needed to keep him in tuition, books, and food. Amesport winters were vicious. To maximize my pay, I’d rush to the freezing coastline before dawn, when the tide was out, to dig for clams. By afternoon, I was cleaning the hulls of cargo ships, the arctic wind tearing through my clothes. Year after year. The constant exposure, the raw, chapped hands and the cold water, eventually destroyed my health. My doctor said my uterus was damaged, and the stress triggered the PCOS. I might never carry a child. Alistair has clearly forgotten all of that. He has played the role of the esteemed, morally immaculate Professor Wells for so long that he’s forgotten his rough beginnings. Forgotten that it was his ‘plain’ wife who sacrificed her body and her future to put him on this pedestal. My chest tightened with an agonizing clench. I quickly changed into my own clothes, then grabbed the crumpled lace dress and walked out. Grace took it, held it up against her own slender frame, and pouted. “Do you think it’s stretched out?” Alistair shot me a quick, chiding glance, then turned back to Grace. “Throw that one out. I’ll replace it and get you something else.” Grace’s eyes lit up. She smiled at him, a dazzling, genuine smile. “Oh, thank you, Professor!” Then she tossed the dress at me. “Here, Mrs. Wells. You keep it. Maybe if you lose some weight, you can finally wear it.” It landed on the hardwood floor. I didn’t reach for it. They turned and walked downstairs, Alistair saying he’d see her off. I moved slowly to the window. Below, the girl was smiling brightly, waving at Alistair. His frame was straight and tall as he watched her go, and I saw the undisguised fondness in his eyes. He hadn’t looked at me like that in years. A spreading bitterness filled my throat. I pressed my lips together. Thirty years with Alistair. In that moment, I knew it was finally, irreversibly over. When Alistair returned, I was still sitting at the dining table, my head bowed. He glanced at the clock, acting as if nothing had happened. “What are we having for dinner?” I spoke flatly. “Do we need to eat?” Alistair frowned. “Are you really taking up dieting now, like those silly college girls? Cathy, you know your body can’t handle that.” I looked up, my eyes cold. “You know my body can’t handle it, and yet you let her humiliate me?” Alistair sighed, a sound of manufactured patience, and walked toward me. “You’re right, the dress didn’t suit you. Do you want me to lie? Besides, Grace is just a young woman with no filter. Stop being so sensitive.” I watched him approach and offered a cold, brittle laugh. “I’m not being sensitive about her.” “I’m talking about you.” “Alistair Wells, how long have you been in love with your student?” 2 Alistair froze mid-step, his face instantly darkening with indignation. “Cathy! It was a dress! A stupid, meaningless dress! Do you have to be so paranoid after all this time?” He held his hands out, his voice rising. “We have thirty years of history. How could you possibly think I’d just throw that away for someone else?” I stood slowly, still staring into his angry eyes. “Alistair, do you remember, so many years ago, the first white dress you ever bought me?” That year, Alistair had finally made it to the city university and earned his first substantial check from a summer job. He used it to buy me a simple white summer dress. My skin was tanned and rough from the fieldwork. When I wore it, the dress looked stark and odd, like a swatch of white cloth tossed over black dirt. I wanted to take it off, feeling ugly and exposed, but Alistair held my hand. “Don’t take it off, Cathy. You look beautiful in everything.” “Wait for me,” he’d whispered. “Just wait until I make something of myself, until I’m a tall, strong oak. Then I’ll give you back the country flower you are.” Today, I’d believed—foolishly—that he’d remembered that memory and bought me a white dress to mark the occasion. Instead, he’d forgotten completely. And with one word—”repulsive”—he proved how fragile that memory was. Sure enough, Alistair was frowning now, struggling to recall. “Why drag up ancient history?” he muttered. “If you want that dress so badly, I’ll just take it back and exchange it for a bigger size.” He bent down, annoyance radiating off him, and picked up the lace dress. But he didn’t realize that in his rush back earlier, he had unconsciously stepped on it. The pure white lace now bore the smudge of a black footprint. It was ruined. Unreturnable. I watched the hand holding the stained garment. “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice low. “I wouldn’t want to wear something that offends your eyes.” Alistair’s control finally snapped. He exploded. “Cathy, you are being utterly impossible!” “You think I’m cheating? Fine! I’ll bring Grace here and let her explain everything right to your face!” He strode toward the door. Then his phone rang. He snatched it up, and as he listened, his face went alarmingly pale. He hung up and rushed out the door. Less than an hour later, the door flew open. Alistair walked in, closely followed by Grace. The girl’s eyes were red, and her cheeks still seemed to have streaks of tears. Alistair’s mood was black. My heart gave a little lurch. I briefly wondered if he had lashed out and made the girl cry. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they weren’t involved. Maybe his comment was just a bad joke. Then, Grace stepped around Alistair and gave me a deep, theatrical bow. “Mrs. Wells, I am so sorry. I was completely out of line earlier. I apologize.” She straightened up, her voice trembling slightly. “I just… I have a terrible filter. I say whatever comes to mind. Please, please don’t hold it against me.” I watched this polished performance, remembering the version of myself that used to beg for cents just to get by. A pang of unexpected softness hit me. I spoke slowly. “It’s fine.” The girl immediately wiped away her tears and grabbed Alistair’s arm, beaming. “That’s wonderful, Professor! Mrs. Wells forgave me!” She lowered her voice, a sudden, conspiratorial note in it. “So, you can let me stay, right?” Alistair looked at her approvingly and nodded. “Of course. Where else would you go? You’re staying here.” He turned to me, his expression hardening as he saw the rigidity in my posture. “Grace’s roommates were using a faulty appliance and it started a fire in their dorm. The girl is alone in Amesport, Cathy. We’ll put her up for a few days.” 3 So, the dramatic apology was just the prelude to this arrangement. I stared at them in disbelief. “Alistair, you can’t bring a female student to live in our home! You could get her a hotel room, or a temporary transfer to another dorm…” He cut me off with a sharp frown. “The university has no spare rooms. And besides, it’s not safe for a young woman alone in a hotel.” Grace, seeing my resistance, brought the tears back. “Mrs. Wells, are you still mad at me? I’ll apologize again, okay?” She started to bend at the waist. “I really am afraid to stay in a hotel by myself. I’m scared…” Alistair stopped her. “This is my house. If I say you are staying, you are staying.” He turned back to me, his voice rough with impatience. “Stop being so petty, Cathy. She apologized. What more do you want?” I stood rooted to the spot, reflecting on Alistair’s earlier denials. His blatant favoritism was sickening. Could his feelings for her be any clearer? A furious mixture of grief and indignation began to churn in my stomach. A reckless, brilliant plan suddenly took shape. I looked at them both and didn’t argue further, simply taking a step back. Alistair led Grace inside, then clapped a condescending hand on my shoulder. “Good. Glad you’re being reasonable. I was a little harsh earlier, too.” I kept my lips pressed shut, but Alistair took my silence as submission. “Go tidy up the guest room,” he ordered. “Grace is our guest. We can’t neglect her.” I smoothed out my features, offering the placid, gentle look he was accustomed to seeing. “Of course. I’ll go clean it up now.” That night, Grace slept in the room right next to ours. The next morning, I woke up early. I started doing the cleaning, my usual daily routine, scrubbing and mopping. I made sure to be loud. The noise eventually roused Grace. She emerged from the guest room, her face crumpled with irritation. “Auntie, why are you up so early cleaning? It’s so noisy.” I froze, looking up from the mop. Grace blinked the sleep from her eyes, saw my face, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wells! I was half-asleep and thought you were my cleaning lady.” She gave a nervous laugh. “But honestly, you’re even more diligent than my maid. I should really tell her to step up her game.” I simply continued dragging the mop, ignoring her completely. Grace gave a forced, weak smile and retreated back into her room. She and Alistair eventually woke up around noon. Alistair was habitually an early riser; I wondered why he’d slept so late today. I didn’t ask. He spoke frankly enough. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Did you get the groceries yet?” I shook my head. Alistair frowned, then picked up a shopping bag. “I’ll come with you, then.” Grace, hearing this, immediately bounced out of her room, announcing she wanted to join. I watched their easy familiarity, feeling a stab of pure irony. I just silently followed them out the door. At the farmer’s market, Alistair picked up a tomato. “Grace loves sweet-and-sour tomato scramble,” he said. “We should get a few of these.” Passing the seafood stall, he pointed to the crabs. “Grace loves steamed crab. Grab a couple.” I looked at the crabs struggling in the tank, a cold smirk forming on my face. “You’re quite familiar with your student’s tastes.” 4 Alistair stiffened, then rushed to explain. “I have a good memory. I picked up on it when we went out to dinner a few times. I remember all my students’ favorites.” I nodded slowly, then turned to him. “And do you remember what I like to eat?” Alistair chuckled, relieved. “How could I forget! You love fish. Hey, owner, give me that big trout.” I immediately stopped him. “Don’t bother.” “Alistair, I’ve hated the smell of seafood my entire life. It makes me sick.” Alistair stared at me, dumbfounded. “But… you always buy fish! You cook it all the time!” I lowered my eyes, my voice laced with self-contempt. “I used to buy the near-dead fish for free when I worked on the docks.” “Later, I cooked it because you love it.” “Alistair, didn’t you ever notice that I never once reached for a single piece of fish?” Alistair fell silent, utterly stunned. A short distance away, Grace was standing, clutching her nose. As we approached, still silent, she seemed oblivious to the thick tension. “This market is so dirty and smelly,” she complained. “Mrs. Wells, you come here every day? You’re so brave. How do you stand it?” Alistair looked at Grace, his expression softening with sympathy. “I told you not to come. I said the environment here was unpleasant.” “Do you come here often, Professor?” Grace asked innocently. Alistair never came. He hated that the market was dirty, and he was embarrassed when I haggled over a few cents. Today, he was slumming it—coming here only to ensure Grace got her favorite ingredients. He avoided Grace’s question, awkwardly changing the subject. As we left the market, we passed a small stall selling cheap clothing. Grace pointed to a garish, black polyester floral dress. “Mrs. Wells, you like wearing dresses, right? This one really suits you.” She nudged Alistair. “Professor, don’t you think?” Alistair glanced at it and nodded. “Yes. It’s very appropriate for her.” The vendor, seeing a potential sale, hurried over, smiling. “Buying for your mother figure?” she asked Alistair and Grace. “A nice gift for your long-time family elder?” The “long-time elder.” It reminded me of the time I first met Alistair’s college roommates. One of them had asked if I was Alistair’s aunt. Alistair hadn’t defended me that night. His face had just gone beet red with shame, and he’d made an excuse to rush me home. After that, I rarely saw his friends. Even now, Alistair couldn’t acknowledge me as his wife. The bitterness intensified. I heard the vendor continue her pitch. “They’re $99, buy one get one free. Great deal.” I clearly remembered the tag on the white lace dress: $1,999. Alistair thought this cheap, ugly, clearance-rack polyester was what was appropriate for me. My eyes hardened. I spoke flatly. “I don’t like it.” I turned and walked away quickly. Alistair rushed to catch up, bewildered. “What are you mad about now? I was trying to be nice and buy you a dress! What did I do wrong?” I took a deep breath, quickening my pace. “Are you deaf? I said I. Don’t. Like. It.” Grace caught up and tried to mediate. “Professor, don’t argue with Mrs. Wells. Maybe it’s inconvenient to wear a dress while working? My cleaning lady never wears them at our house.” The word ‘cleaning lady’ was another sting, deep in my heart. Alistair didn’t deny it. He certainly didn’t scold Grace. He simply agreed. “That’s a good point.” My heart plummeted. In that instant, thirty years of shared history, even the last faint warmth, went ice-cold. When we got home, I immediately went into the kitchen to cook. Grace loved home made opened sandwich? I made it a simple cheese ham sandwich. She loved roasted ribs? I made them spicy and heavily roasted. Her favourite cabbage salad? I doused it in chili and vinegar. When the dishes came out, Alistair’s face was thunderous. “Cathy Wells, I told you what dishes to make!” I ate my food calmly. “My apologies, Professor Wells. My memory isn’t as sharp as yours.” It was a quiet meal. I was the only one who ate with any appetite. Alistair finished quickly, his face dark, and took Grace to the university. I slowly cleaned the kitchen. Then, I went to Alistair’s study and found our marriage certificate. I took out a pen and paper and began to write a letter. But I was interrupted by Alistair calling me. “I’m taking some students out to dinner tonight, and I’m going to introduce you to them.” His voice was dripping with forced patience. “Cathy, I’m doing this much. Can you please stop this childish sulking?” He spoke as if he were bestowing a monumental gift upon me. Yet, for thirty years, it had been my sacrifices that gifted him this life. I swallowed the bitter irony and agreed to the dinner. That evening, I arrived at the restaurant as planned. Just outside the private dining room, I heard Grace’s voice, sharp and distinct. “Yes, I’ve met Mrs. Wells. She wasn’t what I expected. I thought she’d be intellectual and elegant.” A cruel little laugh. “I was surprised. She’s a bit heavy, you know? Definitely the solid, working-class type.” The group erupted in laughter. “What an awful way to describe her, Grace! Aren’t you afraid of getting scolded?” Grace scoffed, her voice smug. “The Professor would never scold me. I’m his favorite student.” Alistair, as expected, only chuckled softly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Grace’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Professor, you and Mrs. Wells don’t have kids, do you? And she has that big belly… do you think she might be pregnant?” Alistair paused, then laughed lightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just heavy.” The table dissolved into fresh, low laughter. I stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold, my expression cold. I pulled out my phone. Without a moment’s hesitation, I posted the fully edited message to the university’s private forum. I watched for the “Post Successful” notification, then, poker-faced, walked into the dining room. The students saw me. Their faces registered shock, curiosity, and disbelief—and yes, distaste. I ignored it all and walked straight to the seat beside Alistair. The group quickly masked their surprise, forcing on polite expressions as they greeted me. I met their eyes, one by one, acknowledging them calmly. Alistair, too, instantly reverted to his role as the doting husband. The dinner began, filled with forced cheer and chatter. Only I remained silent. Suddenly, one of the students gasped in surprise. “Professor! There’s a viral post about you on the school forum!” Alistair immediately snatched the phone. As he read, his face went from pale to sickly gray. He looked up at me, his eyes blazing. “Cathy, are you insane?!”

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It was New Year’s Day dinner when my wife, Sienna, slapped the debit card for our joint bank account down on the marble table in front of me. Her face was stony. “You are going to explain this to me. Why is there only thirty-two cents left in this account?” “I deposited half a million dollars this year. Where is the money?!” I stood up slowly, keeping my voice level. “Take a breath, Sienna. I have the statements right here…” I reached for my phone. My mother-in-law, Carol, interrupted me with a voice dripping in sweet venom. “Your sister just bought a brand-new luxury SUV. Where do you think she got the cash? You clearly took my daughter’s money and handed it over to your family!” I ignored Carol and placed the detailed bank statement in front of Sienna. She glanced at it, then violently swatted my hand away. … “Enough. Get your sister to return the five hundred thousand dollars before the end of the week, or we’re getting a divorce!” A cold, hard laugh escaped me. I picked up my phone, sending the entire year’s expenditure report directly into the Richard family group chat. In the accompanying draft divorce agreement, I demanded that Sienna and her family repay me eighty thousand dollars. The family group chat instantly exploded. People who hadn’t spoken to me in months suddenly started begging me not to go through with it. A surge of icy rage hit me. I looked at Sienna and smirked. “Are you sure you want to go through with this divorce?” Sienna barely glanced at me. “If your sister returns the money, I might drop it.” “But let me be clear: starting next year, I will never put another dollar into that joint account!” My smile became openly mocking. I nodded slowly. “Fine. Let’s get divorced, then.” Carol shrieked, slamming her chopsticks down. “Cameron Mitchell! I’m telling you, even if you divorce my daughter, you will return that money! Otherwise, I will sue you!” I looked at her calmly, speaking each word distinctly. “Don’t worry, before we divorce, I will account for every single penny.” I paused, my voice dropping an octave. “Just one question, though: Are you saying that whoever spent the money is the one who has to pay it all back?” Carol snorted, her chin lifted high. “Exactly! You spent my daughter’s money on your family, and you’ll repay every cent of it.” I nodded. With that statement, I was set. I went back to our bedroom, grabbed my phone, and sent one simple message into Sienna’s family group chat: “I have decided to divorce Sienna.” The group had been a flurry of cheerful holiday emojis and gift card links moments ago. My message dropped into a silence that was deafening. I didn’t care if they replied or not. I tossed the phone onto the bed and started packing a suitcase. Sienna burst through the door. “Are you insane?!” “It’s a holiday, and you’re sending that kind of garbage in the chat? It’s bad luck! Recall it immediately! Say it was a mistake!” I didn’t look up. “I won’t recall it.” I was only telling the truth. Why would I take it back? Besides, it was just a divorce. What was so unlucky about finally being free? My phone suddenly began pinging relentlessly. Messages were pouring into the family chat. Carol was wailing in text: “What kind of life does my daughter live? My heart aches, seeing this!” “He does nothing all day and steals Sienna’s money to buy his sister a car! Sienna simply asked a question, and now he’s demanding a divorce!” “Have you ever met such a shameless son-in-law? That was five hundred thousand dollars! Since he didn’t earn it, he doesn’t care about it!” “I don’t care if you laugh at me, but I have been sick of this man for a long time. Divorce is fine! I’ll take care of my daughter myself from now on!” I curled my lips into a sneer of contempt. If it hadn’t been for her constant meddling, Sienna and I might never have reached this point. Besides, I thought about the account statements. I honestly couldn’t comprehend how Carol could claim she hadn’t touched a penny of that money. The moment she discovered Sienna was depositing a large amount into the joint account every month, she started hitting me up for cash. Today, she needed fifty thousand for a couples’ cruise with my father-in-law. Tomorrow, her distant cousin was getting married and needed twenty thousand for a down payment. The day after, she needed a quarter of a million to ‘lend’ to a struggling former classmate. And Sienna herself… Her colleagues would chip in fifty dollars for a wedding gift. But Sienna insisted that, as a team leader, she had to save face and send a check for ten thousand dollars. Five colleagues got married in one year; that was fifty thousand dollars just on cash gifts. On top of that, there were expensive holiday gifts for her senior executives. Two or three thousand dollars minimum per holiday. She had no idea that her fifty thousand dollar deposits hadn’t even covered the family’s actual lifestyle expenses. I had always told myself we were family. I wasn’t a man who counted every penny. I simply covered the difference, quietly transferring money from my personal account whenever the joint one ran dry. But I never imagined my generosity would be so deeply misunderstood and warped. I thought, out of the eighteen people in the family chat, someone would have the decency to speak up for me. I was wrong. As soon as Carol’s messages came out, the chat erupted in a chorus of condemnation. “What?!” “How could he take all of Sienna’s money for his own family? That’s disgusting!” That was Helen Sawyer, Sienna’s aunt. Six months ago, she told me her nephew needed a hundred thousand for a house down payment. To put my mind at ease, she’d given me a signed IOU, promising to pay it back as soon as possible. I had transferred the money from my own personal funds. I never pressed her, and she never paid it back. “A guy like him will never make five hundred thousand dollars in his life. The old saying is right: the worst thieves are the ones in your own house!” That was Brett Harris, Sienna’s cousin. Three months ago, he came to me asking for two hundred thousand for a startup. I refused, but Carol stepped in, guaranteed the loan, and I begrudgingly transferred the money. As far as I knew, he’d blown through the entire two hundred thousand within a month. He hadn’t said a word about a repayment plan. There were a few attempts at mediation. “Cam, I’m not judging, but you were being insensitive. My sister is busy working all year. Your job is to handle the logistics. Spending her money on your sister—what’s that about?” “Listen to me, man. Go get the five hundred grand back right now, apologize properly to my sister, and this will all blow over.” That was Jamie Richard, Sienna’s younger brother. He was currently in college. Last month, he’d hit me up for three thousand dollars for a trip to Cabo for the holidays. All year, he’d demanded money from me with an air of entitlement. “I’m spending my sister’s money, not yours. What right do you have to refuse me?” I reminded myself he was young, he was Sienna’s brother. Even knowing the money was a dead loss, I transferred it without question. Now, as I watched the messages jump up and down in the family chat, the contempt in my eyes sharpened. Ever since I married Sienna, I had been the one managing all their social and financial dramas. When they needed loans, they were full of sweet talk. Now, they were calling me a shameless thief. I slowly typed and sent a message: “The money was not spent by me or my family. I will not be repaying it.” At that, the rest of the relatives who had been silently watching suddenly jumped in. “Cameron! It’s the holidays, stop causing drama! Everyone knows your sister doesn’t have a real job. How did she buy a car?” My sister, Paige, didn’t have a nine-to-five job. But she wasn’t a freeloader, either. She managed my parents’ domestic businesses. My parents are entrepreneurs who are constantly busy, often traveling abroad to scout for investments. They’d set up a private holding company for Paige to manage our US interests. My parents gave Paige a monthly allowance of two hundred thousand dollars as a formality. So, her new Rolls-Royce—she could easily afford that after saving for a few months. I scoffed. “My sister’s car cost over a million dollars. Sienna’s joint account only had half a million. How could it possibly have been Sienna’s money?” I hadn’t wanted to say anything. Even after marrying Sienna, I had only ever told her that my parents were business owners and financially comfortable. I never told her that their net income was in the tens of millions annually. But Sienna refused to believe it. She was convinced I’d spent the joint funds on my sister. Sienna stood at the door, clutching her phone, reading my message in the chat. She gave a cold laugh. “Still lying? If it wasn’t for my five hundred thousand, how else could your sister have cobbled together enough cash to buy that car outright?” She looked disappointed. “Cam, I told you when we got married, you could help your sister, but you had to ask me first.” “How could you just take the money without a word and give it to an outsider?” I suddenly found her profoundly ridiculous. I put down my phone, looked up, and took a deep breath. “I’m saying it one more time. My family didn’t touch a single cent of your money.” Just as I spoke, Carol burst back in, slamming the door. “Sienna! Don’t waste your breath on him! Your Aunt Helen just told me she saw Cameron’s parents at the airport last month!” Carol glared at me, pointing a finger at my face. “Your parents went on vacation, didn’t they? That was my daughter’s money too, wasn’t it?” “If I had known you were capable of such shameless behavior, I never would have let Sienna marry you!” I recalled the conversation. My mother had mentioned running into Helen at the airport. The Richards were going on a family trip and Helen had bragged about flying first class. I curled my lip. They had money to travel, but no money to repay their loans. It was clear my easygoing nature had made them believe I was a pushover. I zipped up the last item of clothing in my suitcase. I stood up, giving Carol a fake, chilling smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have married Sienna.” “I’ll send you the final accounting and the divorce papers as soon as possible.” With that, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out. Sienna’s face paled. She yanked the suitcase handle. “What do you mean? You’re serious about the divorce?” I gave a light laugh. “You know I don’t make jokes like this.” Carol yelled from inside the apartment. “Let him go, Sienna! I’d like to see where he finds a woman as good as you once you’re divorced!” She faced me, speaking with a defiant, arrogant tone. “You walk out that door today, and you can forget about ever coming back—even if you get on your knees and beg me!” I looked at her deeply. I sincerely hoped she would keep that promise once I finished sending out the rest of the statements. It was New Year’s Eve, and late at night, making it difficult to get a cab. I called my sister, Paige, to come pick me up. On the way home, I told her everything. When we arrived, Paige’s eyes were red. She rushed over and hugged my mother. “Mom, you didn’t see how pathetic Cam looked! On a holiday, he was standing alone downstairs with his suitcase in the cold wind!” She gritted her teeth in fury. “That woman didn’t even offer to help him leave!” My mother, having heard the whole story, put an arm around my shoulder. “Get the divorce. You absolutely must!” All the accumulated frustration and humiliation I’d endured at the Richards’ house instantly vanished. Home truly was the warmest harbor. My brother-in-law, Tyler, came over to me. “So, Cam, you’re just going to let them get away with this?” I gave a slight, cold smile and shook my head. “Let them get away with it?” “I’m going to make every single one of them regret this. I’m just getting started.” I began the process of exporting every single bank statement for the year. Every expense was documented clearly and precisely. The joint account received five hundred thousand dollars. But my total personal expenditure this year was one million three hundred thousand dollars. After Sienna and I married, she told me to quit my job and focus on managing the household. Sienna always thought she was providing for me. What she didn’t know was that my mother gave me an annual allowance of three million dollars, which was even more than she gave Paige. It wasn’t that my mother favored me. It was because I had moved into Sienna’s home after we married, and she was worried I would be mistreated. Sienna’s family was comfortable, but they were worlds apart from mine. When I married Sienna, my mother hadn’t objected. She only had one condition: don’t tell the Richards the true extent of our family’s wealth. I had agreed. Now, it seemed my mother had been right all along. My phone vibrated. Sienna had sent a message to the group chat. “Cameron Mitchell! I’m giving you one last chance. Get your sister to give me back the money, and I won’t divorce you!” I gave a dry laugh. “I won’t.” “Fine! You won’t return it? Then don’t blame me for not respecting our marriage!” “Wait for the court summons!” Carol was also screaming in the group. “See? This man is a disaster waiting to happen! Any woman who marries him is doomed!” Helen Sawyer chimed in: “Don’t worry, we’ll all go to court and testify for you!” “Why should our Richard family money go to outsiders?” I laughed mockingly. She seemed to forget she wasn’t a Richard. Even Jamie, Sienna’s brother, chimed in from his vacation in Cabo, supporting her. “Go for it, Sis! Divorce him!” “I’ll introduce you to a younger guy with six-pack abs! Who needs this old man of a husband!” I didn’t reply again. I called the lawyer who often handled my parents’ corporate issues. I asked her how to draft the divorce agreement and how to reclaim the eight hundred thousand dollars I had spent on the Richards. “I have the transfer records, the IOUs, and the signed guarantees from the person who vouched for the loan.” The lawyer replied, “That’s all we need. Furthermore, the allowance your parents give you is a personal gift, transferred directly to you. That does not count as marital property.” I let out a sigh of relief. Sienna, I’m going to settle this debt, item by item. Ping. The annual bank statement export was complete. The next day, my lawyer came to my house, ostensibly to wish us a happy new year, but she brought the finalized divorce agreement. The last item was a demand for Sienna’s family to repay my personal funds of eight hundred thousand dollars. I signed my name first. Then, I forwarded the exported bank statements directly to the Richard family group chat. Every expense was listed in excruciating detail. Every penny lent to them was documented as coming from my personal savings account. Now that I was divorcing Sienna, I was demanding that the entire family, including Carol and Sienna, repay the eight hundred thousand dollars they owed me. Five minutes later. The group chat exploded.

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My wife was a scientist of renown. A public figure. In interviews, when the subject of emotion came up, she’d say: “I don’t believe I am a suitable partner.” “I would never prioritize love. Under no circumstances.” “I am only willing to dedicate my finite time to the infinite pursuit of science.” After the segment aired, the world was full of praise for her fearless devotion to her work. I, meanwhile, quietly tucked away my medical report. I had cancer. Stage four. The days she spent in London, accepting her prestigious award. Those were my last days on this earth. 1 The final sensation before my consciousness dissolved was the blinding, searing light of the operating room lamp. When I felt my spirit detach and rise, I was able to see the operating theater in its entirety. I saw the monitor next to my bed—the line that tracked my heart rate had flattened into a single, merciless stroke. In that moment, I realized with startling clarity. I was dead. 2 I don’t know why, but I had become an invisible presence, able to drift freely. Just this morning, I had been coherent enough to talk to Serena Ashworth. She was taking a flight at noon for a major academic conference overseas. So, I had gotten up at seven to make her breakfast. For someone so outwardly minimalist and detached, Serena had very specific tastes. Her sourdough toast had to be just a little crisp, and her milk had to be steaming, not scalded. My daughter, Paige, used to joke: “Dad, you’ve spoiled Mom with all this meticulous care.” I never argued with her. After taking care of Serena so thoroughly for two or three decades, even the most troublesome tasks had simply become habit. 3 “Serena, I heard the temperature is going to drop sharply in London because of that Arctic front.” “I packed an extra down vest for you.” “Your gum is in the left pocket of your carry-on. You always get altitude sickness on the plane; chew a piece, it helps.” “And don’t stay up too late. Your heart’s been bothering you, hasn’t it? Get some rest…” “It’s a Polar Continental air mass.” Her voice cut me off, sharp and sudden. I looked up dully, meeting her clear, bright eyes. The phrase beauty unmarred by time fit Serena perfectly. Her features were exquisite; she was nearing middle age, yet the years had left no trace on her. That coldness, which she had carried since she was a young woman, could still reach straight to the core of my heart. She was correcting the imprecision of my opening statement. The “Arctic front” I’d mentioned was precisely a “Polar Continental air mass.” But I was only trying to show concern. I lowered my gaze, smoothing down the lapel of her jacket. “I know.” “Travel safe, Serena.” She turned and walked past me. She assumed I had the afternoon free. That wasn’t true. She was heading across the Atlantic for a major academic presentation. I also had a meeting to attend. It was my pre-operative consultation. The doctors said the success rate for the surgery was only twenty percent. 4 When the doctor informed me that my gastric cancer had been discovered too late and had already metastasized throughout my body, I sat in the hospital corridor for an entire afternoon. A television mounted in the corner was playing a rerun of Today’s Talk, the interview Serena had done a few days prior. The woman with the chillingly cool gaze didn’t want to waste much time on anything besides research. Even when asked about her husband, she only offered a terse dismissal. “I am an obtuse person.” “I don’t understand love. My husband… he is a responsibility, mostly.” “Anniversaries? They’re mere formalism. I’d rather spend that time running a few more experiments than preparing for such a thing.” It was precisely the kind of thing Serena would say. Forget anniversaries; she didn’t even celebrate birthdays. When I was younger, I used to cling to the hope that she might one day surprise me and wish me a happy birthday. But I never waited long enough to see her arrive. The brain that could memorize countless data points was stubbornly unwilling to remember the four digits of my birthday. Eventually, I stopped waiting. I’d sit alone at the table and prepare a bowl of long-life noodles, marking the day myself. Serena was an iron tree; she would never bloom. It took me over twenty years to finally admit that truth. It was only in the last few years that I began to feel differently about myself. Call it exhaustion, or surrender. Funnily enough, she was she, and I was I. This truth, which she had laid out plainly for me decades ago, I was only now truly understanding. I folded the prognosis into a crease-covered square, put it in my pocket, and only called my daughter. 5 Paige and I were close. Because Serena never really liked children, and her only daughter showed absolutely no aptitude for science. After listening to my detached, emotionless account, Paige’s voice caught in her throat. “Dad…” “Did you tell Mom…” “I didn’t tell her.” I looked down at the granite floor. “I don’t want to tell her.” She was her, and I was I. Besides, what difference would it make if she knew I was sick? Would she set aside the research she was madly pursuing day and night to care for me? “Paige.” “Dad doesn’t know how much longer he has to live.” “When I’m gone, don’t tell your mother.” I lowered my head to smooth out the creases in my shirt. Why should I bring something that Serena was utterly indifferent to, to clutter her life? “Okay.” Paige answered from the other end of the line. “But Dad, honestly, Mom doesn’t deserve you.” “She truly doesn’t deserve someone as good as you.” … 6 My spirit drifted through the hospital corridor. I saw the surgeon exit the operating room, shaking his head regretfully. Paige was slumped, sobbing by the bedside. She had brought me to the hospital at noon and had stayed outside the OR until night, but her father had failed and would not open his eyes again. She was crying so hard, and I was fluttering frantically right next to her, but she couldn’t see me. I wanted so badly to hold her, to tell her not to cry, just like when she was little. Paige had done so well. She hadn’t become a scientist, as her mother wished, but her paintings were loved by many, and she was scheduled to have an exhibition in Italy later that year. I sat next to her, looking up at the night sky, singing to her as I used to do when she was a child. She couldn’t hear me, but I felt that somehow, she would know her father was there. … Suddenly, I was swept away by a current, carried to a place very far away. The senses of a spirit after death are bizarrely unique. I could perceive what was happening at the hospital after my death, yet at the same time, I arrived at the conference hall where Serena was presenting. Her conference was scheduled to last seven days. A woman like her could easily become the focal point of any gathering. Young, beautiful, with a resume that was practically unprecedented and unlikely to be repeated. In truth, Serena had always been the center of attention since childhood. In college, the boys who chased her were as numerous as fish in a river. In that slightly more traditional era, boys would boldly wait outside her dorm building. Each time, she would look at them with that same look of absolute distance. Dressed in the simplest white blouse, textbooks tucked under her arm, she would look down at them with a restrained, detached air: “I’m sorry, I don’t like you.” The words were utterly without mercy. What many girls proudly saw as “being popular,” for her was nothing more than a simple nuisance. She was already winning national awards left and right back then. Her name was frequently on the lips of professors. I was one of the students who looked up to her, always on the absolute periphery. I only dared to glimpse the edge of her shirt when we exited the dining hall. Serena had no idea that I had been secretly crushing on her for three or four years before we met through an arranged introduction. And I certainly never expected that three years after graduation. The woman my family arranged for me to meet would be her. “I won’t have a person I like.” That was the first thing Serena said to me when we met. “If I have to say I like anything, I like experiments, mathematics—nothing to do with people, in short.” She frowned slightly, yet even this couldn’t diminish her dazzling beauty. She explained herself concisely. “We are not discussing romance.” “We are simply ensuring the existence of an heir. Do you understand?” … She was very clear back then. It was I who decided I could accept it. It was I who wanted to be with her. I kept thinking that we had all the time in the world, that one day her clear, unflinching gaze would finally land on me. I kept thinking that she— would fall in love with me. Was it sheer arrogance? To pin the hope of all my daily, tireless efforts on that slim chance of love emerging over time? My spirit drifted to her side. I watched her exchange serious words with the scholars opposite her. She was tall, cool, and elegant. “Wasn’t I foolish?” I rested my hand in my pocket, looking at her. “They say smart people look at ordinary people the way ordinary people look at fools.” Meanwhile, my body was being driven away in a hearse to the crematorium. The academic symposium was buzzing with life. “Serena, do you think I was truly a fool?” 7 Serena took a photo of the London night view and sent it to my phone. Of course, I could no longer reply. Paige really hadn’t told her mother about my death; she had even blocked Serena from seeing the obituary I’d sent out via text. That was fine. I’d clung to her for too long when I was alive; I didn’t want to trouble her in death by making her change her flight. Besides, I didn’t think she particularly wanted to see me one last time. The London night view was beautiful. But for some reason, that night, she stared at her phone for a long time on the windy balcony. I drifted closer to see, and I suddenly realized: In the past, whenever she sent me a message, I always replied instantly. When she traveled abroad, she would casually send me a few photos. I would reply with an emoji I’d saved from Paige—a big thumbs-up, or two, with the words “So awesome!” written on them. This time, she waited a long time. I didn’t reply. “Dr. Ashworth, it’s raining again outside.” “Please come back in, you’ll catch a chill.” A young man’s voice called out behind her—one of her students. In the academic world, some things are silently understood. The student stepped forward, a little too intimately, to drape a jacket over her shoulders, but she gently pushed him away. 8 “Fish and chips.” “It’s awful.” Serena sent me a picture of the restaurant. My remains were being placed into the cremation furnace. “Raining again.” Serena sent a picture of the view outside her hotel window. Friends and family were attending my burial service. “Presentation tonight.” “Flight back tomorrow.” Serena stood on the stage, the lenses of many cameras focused on her. I used my somewhat rusty memory of technical English to understand the presentation. Her research achievement seemed to have added a brilliant new chapter to human development. There she was, standing in the spotlight, shining in her domain, never failing to exceed expectations. I suppose that was the reason I had loved her for so many years. But that was my love for her; it wasn’t her love for me. The spring rain fell softly. As my ashes were being buried next to a simple square tombstone, I finally understood this truth. 9 That night, when the conference ended, Serena tried calling my number. When the third call went unanswered, she changed her flight to one leaving at midnight. She frowned the entire flight; her face was even colder than usual. It made sense. For years, I had been available to her whenever she called. It must have been disorienting to suddenly be unable to reach me. Normally, I would always pick her up at the airport whenever she returned home. I would be sure to arrive an hour or two early and just wait there for her. These were also habits. A person can’t bear to see their beloved inconvenienced. I always did my utmost to make her life comfortable and perfectly arranged. But this time, she had to walk through the deserted terminal alone and hail an expensive cab at four or five in the morning. She arrived home at six a.m. She knocked first, but no one answered. She used her fingerprint to unlock the door and pushed it open. The house was empty. Everything was just as she had left it. The sink was spotless, the dining table bare. Only, the slippers I usually wore were sitting by the entryway. She unfastened the jacket she’d been too rushed to change out of, walking around the unlit house, circle after circle. The bedroom, the balcony, the bathroom. Finally, she pulled open the door to the washing machine. … Finding nothing, she paused, pulled out her phone, and called me. After a long wait, she was met with a busy signal. She sighed, sliding her thumb down the list to another number. Paige’s. Their relationship had been strained since before Paige was a teenager. In recent years, Paige only came home to see me, with no intention of engaging with her mother. Serena’s attitude was much the same: she was consumed by her research, which essentially meant she didn’t want to be bothered with raising a child. She had been absent during the most crucial stages of her daughter’s development, so Paige never had a kind word for her. “What do you want?” “Where is your father?” Both of their voices were sharp, but Paige hesitated. Then came a strange laugh, an indescribable sound. She repeated the question in a low murmur. “Where is my father?” “My father is gone.” “Gone where?” Serena’s frown deepened. The morning sun had just begun to fall on her brow. I heard the raw, choked edge in my daughter’s voice on the other end of the line. “He didn’t go anywhere.” “Dad passed away, Mom.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390862”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel