Author: Momo Chan

When I went back home for Thanksgiving, I discovered that my 60-year-old mother-in-law was pregnant with her third child. After finding out, she tried to manipulate me into paying for everything and helping her out. When I finally confronted them, Blake, my husband, excused his mom, saying she’s had a hard life. His true nature as a mama’s boy was revealed. They really thought they could take advantage of me. No way. I filed for divorce, leaving my husband to live with his mom for the rest of his life. Let them figure it out. At the end of the year, Blake and I hurried back to the Whitford Family Home, with our daughter, Violet, to celebrate Thanksgiving. But the moment I saw my mother-in-law, Evelyn, something felt off. She used to be around 90 pounds, but now she looked like she had easily gained more than 20 pounds. What struck me more was how drastically her attitude toward me had changed. She warmly held my hand, looked at my eight-month-pregnant belly, and asked, “Have you been getting your prenatal checkups regularly?” I thought maybe Evelyn was finally changing her cold attitude from when I had given birth the last time. Feeling touched, I replied, “Yes, I’ve done all my prenatal checkups.” Then, Evelyn asked, “I’m curious, when women get older, do they need an amniocentesis test?” Why was she asking me this out of the blue? Just then, Violet pointed at Evelyn’s belly and asked, “Grandma, is there a baby in your belly?” I quickly glanced at Evelyn’s midsection. Sure enough, her waistline had expanded noticeably. Flustered, Evelyn said, “Oh, I’m 60 years old! There’s no baby here, I’ve just put on some weight.” I sighed in relief. But when I walked into the house, I saw baby clothes, a crib, and… prenatal vitamins. I was the only pregnant woman in the house. Colton, my brother-in-law, had a girlfriend, but she wasn’t staying with us. So, who were those baby supplies for? I didn’t want to think too much about it. That night, I told Blake about my suspicions. Blake rubbed my belly and reassured me, “That’s Mom’s stuff. Prenatal vitamins are easier to absorb, and her immune system isn’t great. She’s been drinking them to boost her health. Didn’t you notice she’s gained weight?” Even though Blake had explained it away, and I could rationalize that maybe Evelyn was giving the baby stuff to someone else, I still felt uneasy. So, I started paying closer attention to Evelyn. I saw Grant, my father-in-law, place his hand on Evelyn’s belly when he came home from work, and Evelyn would shyly look down. I noticed that when Evelyn bent down to pick things up, she unconsciously protected her stomach. Even Violet mentioned that Grandma had been eating a lot of sour foods lately. All signs pointed to the fact that Evelyn, my 60-year-old mother-in-law, was pregnant. But the whole family was keeping it from me. No one wanted to tell me. During dinner one night, I asked Evelyn, “Mom, you never used to like vinegar. Why are you eating so many sour things now?” Before Evelyn could respond, Blake interrupted, “What Mom likes to eat is her business. Why are you, as her daughter-in-law, getting so nosy?” I shot Blake a look that made him go quiet. Still, without an answer from Evelyn, I couldn’t even finish my meal. I kept asking Evelyn why she liked sour foods now. Suddenly, Grant slammed his utensils on the table. “Your mother is pregnant! So what if she didn’t tell you? It’s her right to be pregnant. Does she need your permission?” Blake tried to calm me down, saying, “You shouldn’t be upset. You’re not supposed to tell anyone in the first three months of pregnancy, and that’s why Mom kept it a secret.” So, they all knew? They all knew Evelyn was pregnant, and I was left in the dark? A 60-year-old mother-in-law and I pregnant at the same time? I would be the laughingstock of the town! But I couldn’t get mad because of my own pregnancy. I took deep breaths to calm myself. After a while, I gently said to Evelyn, “Mom, you’re not even three months in yet. Maybe it’s time to consider ending the pregnancy.” Evelyn clutched her belly and shrieked, “The baby inside me is an innocent life! Why is it okay for you to have a baby but not me?” I remained calm. “Because you can’t have this baby. You’re 60. It’s bad for your health, and frankly, it’s embarrassing to tell others.” “Plus, how are you going to raise a child? Do you and Dad have a retirement fund or pension? Blake and I are the ones paying for your vitamins and health insurance. Are we supposed to take care of this baby too?” I got a little worked up. Evelyn burst into tears, holding her belly and saying she didn’t feel well. Grant helped her up and glared at me. Grant added, “Do you think it’s easy for us to have a third child? We love kids. Why can’t we have one? And you’re just a stay-at-home mom. You get to spend Blake’s money, so why can’t we as his parents?” I was livid. I stormed off to the bedroom to calm myself, reminding myself not to get too angry for the sake of my baby. As I thought back on what Grant had said, I realized every word was an accusation. But calling me a stay-at-home mom who lived off Blake’s money? That was way off base. My family had given a generous dowry when we married, and I worked part-time to help with expenses. Half of the household costs came from me. So why did Evelyn and Grant act like I was some useless freeloader? Later that night, Blake tried to justify his parents’ behavior. “My parents have had a hard life. And you know, older folks believe that the more kids you have, the better. It makes the family lively, and more family is never a bad thing, right?” I scoffed, “Your mom’s hardships weren’t caused by me, were they? Did she have it easy before I married into this family? Am I the reason for all her struggles?” Blake fell silent. Whenever he went quiet like that, I knew he felt guilty. Before we got married, Blake would always defend me. He wouldn’t let his mom say a single bad thing about me. But after we tied the knot, every time Evelyn and I clashed, Blake would say, “My mom’s had a hard life.” Luckily, we didn’t live with his parents. Now I realize Blake was just a mama’s boy in disguise. If I had seen through him before the wedding, I never would have married him. But for my own sake, I had to stay calm. I was eight months pregnant. I couldn’t let myself get worked up. But the Whitford family wasn’t making it easy. The next day, Blake’s relatives showed up at the house, all rallying around Evelyn. One by one, they said things like, “It’s not easy for an older woman to get pregnant. This baby is a blessing from God. And having more kids makes for a livelier family.” “Exactly. When you marry into the Whitford family, you become part of the family. You should put the family first. What’s so wrong with your mother-in-law being pregnant at 60? How many women can even get pregnant at that age?” Evelyn’s relatives were acting like this was some kind of miracle and almost expected me to bow in gratitude for the blessing of a new brother- or sister-in-law. When they had finally worn themselves out, I calmly responded, “If having a baby at 60 is such a good thing, why don’t you have your mother or your daughters spend the postpartum recovery period with her?” They were speechless. But they didn’t give up that easily. They kept going on about how more kids would bring more energy and prosperity to the family. I sarcastically asked, “So am I done having babies?” At this point, Blake felt a bit embarrassed. He pulled me aside and said, “Honey, you should show some respect to the elders. That’s just basic manners.” I didn’t care what the rest of the Whitford family said, but Blake siding with them? That disgusted me. What a fool I was to marry him. But I was too pregnant to keep fighting and didn’t want to stress myself out. That night, when Blake was in the shower, I saw a notification pop up on his phone. He had transferred $2,000 to an online baby store. Curious, I snuck over to Evelyn’s bedroom and overheard her talking to Grant. “Did I order everything right online? I’ve bought so many baby supplies. Thank goodness Blake is such a good son and linked his bank card to mine. That way, it’ll be easier when I get the prenatal test and during my recovery.” Grant said with satisfaction, “That’s right. Having a good son is better than anything.” Evelyn hesitated for a moment and asked, “But what if Sloane makes a fuss about getting a divorce?” Grant replied, “Then let her divorce. We’ll be just fine as long as our family stays together. Who needs outsiders?” I felt like I had been struck by lightning. My whole body went numb. The baby in my belly must’ve sensed my distress and started kicking furiously. I rubbed my stomach to try and calm the baby down, but the kicking only grew more intense. I quickly lay down, waiting for Blake to come back and bring me some prenatal medicine. But when he returned, Blake said, “Taking too much prenatal medicine isn’t good for you. You’re just overthinking this and stressing yourself out.” I threw a pillow at Blake, shouting, “Am I overthinking things, or have you and your family been hiding all this from me? How many ‘good deeds’ have you been keeping from me?” Blake jumped up, accusing me, “You’ve been brainwashed by those online articles, haven’t you? You’re having a baby, and so is Mom. You’re younger, so you’ll recover quickly. When Mom has the baby, you can help her with the postpartum care.” He said it so seriously, like it was the most logical thing in the world. I had been shocked earlier by what I’d heard from Grant and Evelyn. But now, Blake was pushing me to my breaking point. I felt sick and dizzy, and my stomach began to hurt. I waved him off, too overwhelmed to even argue. But the next day, Blake told his mom, “Mom, don’t worry about a thing. Sloane is totally on board with you having the baby. We’ll take care of the costs and the postpartum recovery.” I didn’t agree to any of that! Blake had completely twisted what happened. I had only waved him off because I was feeling unwell. But I didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. Thanksgiving was in three days, and I decided to go back to the Monroe Family Estate to recover. I’d deal with everything else after the baby was born. I called my mom, and when I told her what was happening, she immediately exploded. “Evelyn has the nerve to get pregnant? And then expects you and Blake to raise the child?” Thank goodness my mom was on my side. She assumed Blake supported me, so I didn’t bother explaining. I just asked her to come and pick me up. Luckily, I didn’t live too far from my parents. It was only a two-hour drive. That evening, my parents arrived, and I quickly packed my things to leave. But just as we were about to go, Blake and his parents blocked the door. Evelyn turned to my mom and said, “You’re a mother too. You can’t be selfish…” My mom was not one to back down. She rolled up her sleeves and snapped back, “Well, I’m pregnant too. If your son is going to take care of your baby, then my daughter will take care of mine.”

Evelyn’s face turned pale as a ghost. “You’re too old to be pregnant! Don’t you have any shame?” My mom scoffed, rolling her eyes and spitting on the ground in disgust. “I’m only a few years younger than you. You think I’m too old, but you, at 60, can still be pregnant? You’re the one without shame!” Evelyn was left speechless, her expression as sour as if she’d just eaten something rotten. Watching the scene unfold, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction bubbling up inside me. My dad pulled Blake aside for a private talk. He had probably expected Blake to take my side, but what he didn’t expect was for Blake to say, “Sloane’s been moody during her pregnancy. I get that, it’s normal, but life’s never perfect, right?” When my dad heard Blake’s words, he realized there was no point in continuing the conversation. He walked back to the car, pulling me along with him. On the drive back, the tension in my belly worsened. The stress and anger had caused complications, and I was in serious pain. Worried, my parents rushed me to Riverview Medical Center. The doctors examined me and said I needed to be hospitalized. They warned that due to my unstable emotions, I was showing signs of a potential miscarriage. They recommended an immediate C-section to save the baby. On the first night after my surgery, Blake showed up at the hospital. The first words out of his mouth were, “Why are you picking a fight with my parents? Now the whole neighborhood is talking about what a joke they are. Sloane, you have no heart!” I was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from a C-section, and Blake had the nerve to come and berate me? The sight of him made my stomach turn. If I weren’t still healing, I swear I would’ve slapped him across the face. But my silence only made Blake think I was feeling guilty. He sneered, “You’re such a wicked woman. You have no kindness in you. It’s almost Thanksgiving, and instead of staying with your husband’s family, you ran off with your parents. Do you know how much shame you’ve brought to my parents and me?” His face was twisted with anger, and I could see the exhaustion in his eyes. It was clear he was losing sleep over the situation, but I couldn’t care less. I sat up slightly and said, “Fine, Blake, think of me as the bad guy. After I recover and give birth, we’re getting a divorce. You, your parents, and your new sibling can all live happily ever after without me. In fact, why don’t you let your mom have ten more kids? Why did you even bother getting married?” If I weren’t so physically drained, I would’ve given him a much bigger piece of my mind. Blake stared at me, dumbfounded, for a moment. Then, like a child throwing a tantrum, he pointed a finger in my face, yelling, “You’re disrespectful and ungrateful! How dare you speak to me like that!” I couldn’t take it anymore. I lunged forward, intending to bite his finger, but before I could, Blake shoved me hard. Being so heavy with pregnancy, I lost my balance and crashed to the floor. The impact made my head spin, and I felt like I was sinking into deep water, drowning in dizziness. Through the haze, I faintly heard my mom’s desperate screams and the doctors rushing in for an emergency.

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Under my mother’s strict discipline, I became the valedictorian and was accepted into Stanford University. On the day the results came out, everyone praised my mom for her successful parenting, saying she would enjoy a blissful retirement. The local news came to interview her, and she shared her parenting methods without a hint of humility. “Spare the rod, spoil the child, and that’s how you raise a successful one.” The whole city celebrated my achievement. But I left a note behind, and stood on the edge of the rooftop. “I’ve given you Stanford. In my next life, please let me go.” My mom, Vivian Whitmore, holds a PhD, and my dad, Gregory Whitmore, has a master’s degree. I could say “mom” and “dad” by seven months old, and by eight months, I could walk. Everyone praised me for being naturally gifted, saying that with the right upbringing, I was surely Ivy League material. My mom thought so too. She became obsessed with the idea, even going as far as renaming me Serena Whitmore, as if that would seal my future at Stanford. At three years old, despite barely being able to write, I would attend preschool during the day, and then at night, I was forced to memorize poetry until 10 p.m. Meanwhile, kids my age were running wild in the yard, playing without a care in the world. I was jealous, always peering longingly through the window at them. When my mom noticed, she had the curtains sealed shut, cutting me off completely from the outside world. She struck my palms with a rod, her face full of disdain. “Those kids are already falling behind. They’ll never amount to anything, and neither will you if you waste time like them.” Relatives pressured my mom to have a second child, saying her good genes shouldn’t go to waste. But she was resolute. “All my time and energy are for Serena. She’s destined for Stanford, and I can’t afford to be distracted.” Then, turning to me, she added, “I’ve sacrificed so much for you, betting everything on your future. You have to get in.” When I entered Willow Creek Elementary, my mom became even more extreme. Every night, I worked on extra assignments until midnight, never getting enough sleep. I would often doze off while solving problems, and she would stand behind me, whipping me with that thin rod. “Sleep, sleep, sleep. That’s all you do. You aren’t allowed to sleep until you’ve finished all these exercises.” With tears streaming down my face, I dared not defy her. As time went on, the bags under my eyes grew bigger than my eyes themselves. Relatives voiced their concerns, saying my mom was suffocating me and would drive me to an early grave. Infuriated, she accused them of being jealous of her genius daughter. They complained to my dad, Gregory, who was working out of town, but he could only tell them to stay out of it. Soon, the relatives stopped coming altogether, saying our family was full of lunatics. My mom, however, was satisfied with this outcome. She would stand over me, rod in hand, watching me work through endless stacks of practice tests. “Now that no one will bother you, let’s see how you try to slack off.” The pile of worksheets next to my desk grew taller than me, and I felt so, so tired. After I graduated from elementary school, I got into Redwood Middle School, the best in the city. In a new environment where no one knew me, I finally made my first friend. Her name was Delilah Brooks, and she was my seatmate. Delilah was outgoing and friendly. On our first day, she started chatting with me and even shared some of her favorite snacks. I was over the moon and saved the snacks in my backpack, too excited to eat them. After school, I rushed home to give the snacks to my mom and told her about my first friend. Without a word, she threw the snacks into the trash and berated me for being lazy and foolish. I hung my head, too scared to speak. Then she asked about Delilah’s grades. I answered truthfully, “She’s at the bottom of the class.” My mom’s face darkened, but she didn’t say anything. The next day at school, Delilah suddenly refused to speak to me, and she asked the teacher to change seats. Confused, I asked her why. Delilah shoved me and yelled, “Your mom called my house and said that losers like me aren’t worthy of being your friend—that I’d only drag you down!” The whole class started whispering. “Just because she has good grades, she thinks she’s better than everyone.” “Her mom’s crazy. Since when do bad grades mean you owe someone food?” I walked away in tears, too ashamed to say anything. When I got back to my seat, I noticed my desk and chair were gone. My homeroom teacher, Mr. Gideon Brooks, awkwardly explained, “Your mom insisted that you sit alone so no one will distract you.” I nodded, looking down. “I understand.” From that day on, no one dared to talk to me, terrified that even a single word would lead to a warning from my mom. I ate alone, sat alone, and walked home alone. And as always, I stayed up late doing practice tests until deep into the night. Every time I took a test, I ranked first in the grade. My mom beamed with pride, telling everyone that Serena Whitmore was a natural-born Stanford candidate. Was it talent? I touched the thick calluses on my hands, left by the countless practice tests I had done. When it came time for high school entrance exams, I ranked first in the city and broke all previous score records, earning a $5,000 scholarship from the city of Boston. My mom happily collected the money. Her colleagues called for advice on how to raise such a brilliant child. She proudly shared her methods, one call at a time. “I think it’s just talent. After all, both her father and I are Ivy League graduates. How could our kid turn out anything less?” “But if you don’t have talent, then you have to work hard. My Serena does at least ten practice tests every single day.” “And if you don’t have talent and you don’t work hard, well, that’s when the rod comes in. You can’t get a good kid without some discipline.” She even posted a video on social media. The caption: “Discipline raises geniuses.” The video showed her hitting me with a rod across my back when I got a question wrong. Her colleagues shared the post widely, and it unexpectedly made it to the front page of the Boston Post. The question on everyone’s mind: Does strict discipline raise obedient children, or rebels? My mom replied confidently in the comments: “Of course, it raises obedient children. Serena has never disobeyed me, not even once.” But soon, my actions would completely disprove her.

At Evergreen Prep Academy, the top high school in the state, it was filled with kids who were not only talented but also worked incredibly hard. I began to struggle, and on my first monthly exam, I completely bombed, falling to 30th in the grade. My mom refused to believe it and stormed into the school. She accused the teachers of messing up my test, demanding a reevaluation. “There’s no way my Serena could score this badly! She’s always been number one! You teachers are taking bribes to suppress her grades!” The teachers were upset, but what could they do? I was humiliated beyond words. I tugged at my mom’s sleeve, trying to get her to leave. But she slapped me across the face, her expression twisted in anger. “Serena Whitmore, you better pray the test was graded wrong, or you’ll regret it!” I backed into the corner, covering my face, while the teachers tried to calm her down, explaining that no matter the result, hitting me wasn’t the answer. But she wouldn’t listen, insisting on a regrade. Unable to stop her, the teachers had to call the principal. The principal had my test paper regraded right in front of her. The score was exactly the same. My mom’s face grew dark. She didn’t say a word, just yanked me out of school without even asking for permission. At home, locked in my room, I received the worst beating of my life. “Serena, is this how you repay me? You think just because I’m not there, you can slack off? With grades like these, how do you expect to get into Stanford?” I curled up in the corner, my eyes squeezed shut in pain. The wounds were on my back, so when I returned to school, no one could see them. At school, I was the talk of the town. Everyone whispered about how my mom had made a scene. But I was numb. This wasn’t the first time, after all. Teachers approached me, discreetly offering help. I shook my head and forced a smile. It’s no use. No one can help me… For the first time, I skipped class and wandered to the pond behind the school. The green lily pads were clustered thickly together, with brilliant blooms of lotus flowers rising up. I stared at them, a dangerous thought flashing through my mind. If I jumped in, no one would find me. It would be a complete, final death. Not even my body would be left for my mom. I bit my lip and slowly moved toward the railing. “Woof… woof…” Just as I swung one leg over the edge, a faint bark came from the bushes. I froze, slowly bringing my leg back. Maybe I should take one last look. Just one more. I’d never had a childhood—only study sessions that lasted late into the night. When I was seven, I gathered the courage to ask my mom if I could get a cat or a dog. She refused, stone-hearted. In her eyes, any distraction was a waste of time. It wasn’t that I loved animals; I just wanted to feel the presence of something living. Something to remind me that I was alive. I followed the sound and discovered a boy crouched in the bushes, feeding a stray puppy bits of jerky. I recognized him. Asher Hawthorne. He had scored second on the recent exam. His photo was on the school’s honor roll. When he noticed me, he handed me a piece of jerky with a gentle smile. “Want to feed it?” I bit my lip and silently took the jerky, offering it to the puppy. The puppy ate eagerly, occasionally licking my fingers. The sensation was so unfamiliar, almost electric. I was startled, but it made me smile for the first time in forever. After the jerky ran out, I still wasn’t ready to leave. “You’ve had enough for today,” Asher said softly, stroking the puppy’s fur. “Don’t be greedy.” His voice was gentle and calm, so much so that I felt compelled to ask quietly, “Do good students skip class too?” Asher chuckled and glanced at me. “Didn’t you skip class?” I pressed my lips together and looked down. That’s when I noticed the faint white scars running along the inside of his wrist. “You…” No wonder he wore long sleeves in the middle of summer. Startled, I looked up at him. He had caught my gaze and quickly tugged his sleeve back down, covering the scars. He resumed petting the puppy, his eyes cast downward. “Her name is Peanut. Cute, huh?” “She’s the last of her litter. Her mom was killed by some kids, so I come here every day to feed her.” As he spoke, I quietly sat down beside him. No one had ever shared anything personal with me before, so I listened intently. But suddenly, Asher fell silent. I glanced over at him, confused. “I saw you earlier,” he said quietly, “when you were thinking of ending it. I made Peanut bark on purpose. I was betting that you wouldn’t go through with it.” “I won that bet. You came down.” He looked at me, his pale face cracking a sad smile. “Because we’re the same.” I froze, utterly stunned. Maybe it was because I had finally met someone who understood me, but we bonded deeply from that moment on. Asher told me about his family and his genius twin brother. His brother had won a national science competition, skipped two grades in middle school, and had already been accepted into an Ivy League school. Asher had spent his life constantly being compared to his brother. Without the same high IQ, he had to work a hundred times harder, but still couldn’t measure up. I looked at him seriously. “But you’re already amazing.” Asher gave a bitter smile. “If only they thought the same thing.” By “they,” he meant his parents. I was at a loss for words, feeling like I had no right to comfort him. But Asher didn’t seem to mind. He scooped Peanut into her small bed and stood up. Before leaving, he invited me back. “Want to come feed her again tomorrow?” I nodded eagerly, feeling a strange sense of excitement. It was like we had found a secret world of our own. On the way back to class, my steps felt lighter, and even the air tasted sweeter. But the moment I stepped into the classroom, my smile faded completely. My mom was standing outside the classroom door, her icy gaze fixed on me. She stormed toward me, delivering a hard kick to my knee. I collapsed to the ground, forced to kneel before her. Looking down at me with a fierce glare, she slapped me across the face in front of the entire class.

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On New Year’s Day, Aunt Barbara’s entire family taught me a lesson. Her grandson burned my custom-made wedding dress, and her daughter stole my $15,000 diamond necklace. When I demanded compensation, Aunt Barbara slapped me and said, “What do you mean steal? Taking your stuff is doing you a favor!” So, I filed a lawsuit and took her entire family to court. On the day of the verdict, Aunt Barbara got down on her knees and begged for my forgiveness. I just smiled and said, “Forgive you? Taking you to court was doing you a favor.” My name is Emily Shaw, and I’m a designer specializing in custom wedding dresses. After wrapping up a project, I packed my car with gifts and drove home through the night. I finally made it just in time for New Year’s Day. Before I could even park the car, my phone rang. It was my mom. “Sweetheart, could you pick up a pack of chocolates on your way home?” I was confused. “Mom, since when do you eat chocolate?” She chuckled, “It’s not for me. Your Aunt Barbara is here with Zach, and he wants some chocolate.” Hearing this made my temples throb. Aunt Barbara hadn’t set foot in our house since my uncle passed away. Why had she shown up out of nowhere this year? Feeling uneasy, I stopped to buy the chocolate. The closer I got to the house, the stronger this sense of foreboding grew. And sure enough, the moment I opened the door, something rammed into my stomach. I stumbled backward, hitting the doorframe hard enough to make my head spin. Before I could recover, an obnoxious voice cut through the pain. “Worthless brat! Worthless brat!” Zach Wells, all right. At just 8 years old, this kid already weighed a solid 120 pounds. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought a pig had learned to fly. He snatched my bag, dumping everything out onto the floor, frantically searching for the chocolate. “Where’s my chocolate, you worthless brat?” I was too furious to respond, but when I didn’t react, Zach raised his foot, aiming for my hand. “Have you lost your mind?” I jerked my hand back just in time. The lipstick Zach had thrown earlier hit the ground and shattered, its bright red color splattering across the floor. If I had moved any slower, it wouldn’t have been the lipstick breaking—it would’ve been my bones. “I want chocolate! I want chocolate!” Zach’s ear-piercing shrieks overpowered the chatter in the living room. Finally, someone noticed the commotion at the front door. Aunt Barbara was the first to rush over, unleashing a string of curses before she even saw what was happening. “Are you out of your mind? Picking on my grandson on New Year’s!” I leaned against the doorframe, barely managing to stand. “Your grandson ran into me, dumped out my bag, couldn’t find the chocolate, and tried to stomp on my hand. Look at that lipstick—if I hadn’t moved fast enough, it would’ve been my hand!” Aunt Barbara paused for a second, surprised. “Zach, did you break that lipstick?” Zach, still nestled in her arms, boldly replied, “She didn’t give me the chocolate, so I stomped on it! I stomped on it!” I thought to myself, at least the kid’s honest. He admitted it; now let’s see what Aunt Barbara has to say. But once again, she surprised me. Aunt Barbara beamed and patted Zach on the head, “Wow, my clever boy! One stomp and it’s shattered!” I stared in disbelief as she continued to praise her grandson like he’d just won a trophy. I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. Aunt Barbara hadn’t changed one bit from the woman I hated as a child.

The noise in the living room brought the rest of the relatives over. Seeing me clutching my stomach in pain sent my mom into a panic. “Sweetheart, what happened to you?” I answered honestly, “Zach almost knocked me out cold.” Zach, emboldened by the adults around him, raised his chin and spat back, “Shut up, you worthless brat! You deserved it!” The room fell silent. Everyone was shocked that such venomous words had come out of an 8-year-old’s mouth. Aunt Diane gently patted Zach’s head, trying to calm him down. “Zach, you shouldn’t talk like that. She’s your elder.” But Zach wasn’t having it. He burst into tears. “You old hag! How dare you touch me! I’ll have my grandma beat you up!” At that, the house erupted. Even Aunt Diane, who was usually so patient, was speechless. But Aunt Barbara wasn’t even paying attention to us. The moment Zach started crying, she lost it. “What kind of elder is she supposed to be?” “Our Zach is the pride of the Wells family, the only real man left in the bloodline. And you think you, a woman married off, have the right to scold my grandson?” Aunt Diane’s hand trembled in mid-air, her bad heart clearly struggling with the stress. Sensing things were about to spiral, my mom jumped in to diffuse the tension. “They’re just kids, they don’t know any better. Let’s not ruin the holiday over this.” She gave me a look, signaling for me to help out. “Didn’t you say you missed Aunt Diane yesterday? Why don’t you two catch up?” I got the hint and helped Aunt Diane back to the living room. But Aunt Barbara wasn’t about to let us off the hook that easily. She stormed over and started yelling again. “Don’t pretend to be nice! If you’re not going to live long, hurry up and die already! Stop cursing my grandson with your bad luck!” That was the last straw for my mom. She stepped up to Aunt Barbara and firmly said, “Watch your mouth. You can’t just say anything that comes to mind.” “And who do you think you are, acting all high and mighty?” Before Aunt Barbara could throw out more insults, her daughter, Cassie, pulled her aside. For a brief moment, mother and daughter locked eyes, and Aunt Barbara’s anger seemed to simmer down. She sat down with Zach, stuffing his arms with candy like a peace offering. Ah, the magic of New Year’s. As long as no one crosses the line completely, there’s nothing a good “It’s the holidays” can’t fix. My mom led me into the bedroom. When she lifted my shirt, sure enough, a massive bruise covered my back. “Why are we even letting her stay after this?” I asked, frustrated. Mom sighed, “Ever since your uncle passed, life’s been hard for her. Plus, your cousin just went through a nasty divorce, so she’s not in a good place.” “Try to remember how she looked after you when you were little. Don’t hold it against her.” I bit my tongue as Mom went back to the living room to play the gracious host. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. When I was a kid, both my parents worked out of town, so I was left in Aunt Barbara’s care. With my uncle always busy, I spent most of my time with her. And all those buried memories, the ones I swore I’d forget, started resurfacing, making me sick to my stomach. I pulled out the chocolate I had just bought and tossed it into the trash without a second thought. She started it, and I sure wasn’t going to let it slide.

When I stepped back into the living room, the first thing I saw was Aunt Barbara sitting on the couch, barefoot, her feet propped up on the coffee table, spitting sunflower seeds everywhere. She was criticizing everyone and everything, bragging like her son was the only successful person in the world, while the rest of us were losers or good-for-nothings. But everyone knew the truth. Aunt Barbara had two kids. Jason had cheated on his wife and lost everything in the divorce, and Cassie had dropped out of high school and hadn’t found a job since. If I were her, I wouldn’t even have the nerve to open my mouth. Trying to keep my cool for the holiday, I decided to just ignore her. But of course, Cassie wasn’t about to let that happen. No sooner had I sat down than she sidled up next to me like a leech. “Emily, that bracelet you’re wearing is so beautiful. Could you give it to me?” I smiled but didn’t respond, instead calling over Buddy, our family dog. He trotted over, and his fluffy head landed right on my lap. Cassie wasn’t giving up. She pointed to my necklace and said, “Emily, that’s a diamond necklace, right? I love diamonds! How about giving it to me as a New Year’s gift?” I calmly stroked Buddy’s head, pretending Cassie wasn’t even there. After failing twice, her fake smile cracked. Raising her voice so everyone could hear, she shouted, “You’ve got so much jewelry, what’s one piece to give me? I bet you could get any man to buy you more in no time. Why be so stingy?” At that point, staying quiet would’ve been too polite. “No matter how much I have, it’s mine. What does that have to do with you?” “Do you think I owe you something just because you want it? Did I wrong your ancestors in a past life?” Cassie was stunned. She clearly didn’t expect me to hit back like that. “Emily, how can you say that? We’re family!” Family? When was that ever the case? I smirked and asked, “Weren’t you the one who said I was nothing but a dog your family raised? Told me to know my place and stay away from you? And now you’re stooping so low as to call me family?” Cassie’s face flushed red, her eyes welling up with tears. “At least… we grew up together. Doesn’t that count for something?” “Grew up together?” Back in elementary school, we were in the same class. She used to force me to do her homework, and if I ever hesitated, she’d run home crying to Aunt Barbara. What followed was always the same—starvation or a beating. One time, I took too long buying her a bottle of water, so she and three of her friends pinned me down and smashed my head against the ground. When blood started pouring down my face, they got scared and let me go to the teacher. Cassie even threatened me afterward, making me say I fell on my own or she’d have Aunt Barbara throw me out to freeze to death. I still have a scar by my left eye to remind me of our so-called “sisterhood.” “Crying won’t work on me. If you want someone to buy you a necklace, go cry to them.”

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At her mother’s funeral, Cassie Monroe fell right into Evan’s arms, clinging to him for dear life. Watching the two of them—sickeningly cozy—and Cassie’s restless seven-year-old nephew, I chose to stay quiet as a mouse. That is, until her nephew threw one of the ceremonial fireworks dangerously close to the urn. With a bang, gray dust puffed everywhere. I leaned toward the stunned Cassie and whispered, “Your mom just went off with a bang.” “Sam, it’s all in the past. Why can’t you just let it go?” Evan Walker, my boyfriend of seven years, looked at me with utter disappointment. “I’m telling you now: if you go today, we’re done.” His handsome face no longer felt familiar; I barely recognized him. “No matter what history you two have, Cassie’s mom just passed away. You can’t let it go, even for that? Since when did you get so heartless?” Heartless? That almost made me laugh out loud. The funeral Evan was insistent on attending wasn’t just any service; it was for the mother of his “star trainee.” And his treasured trainee? Cassie Monroe, who’d bullied me every day for three years in high school. I could never forget Cassie’s two-faced, innocent expression—or her mother’s smack across my face in front of the entire school. Evan knew my whole history with Cassie, and yet here he was, telling me I was “heartless” for asking him not to go. “Even if it means we’re done, you’re still going?” I expected myself to get hysterical—after all, before Cassie showed back up, Evan and I rarely fought, even when we spent three years apart because of work. For us, “break up” was an unspoken taboo. But Evan didn’t answer. His only response was to finish tying his shoes by the entryway, his choice clear. When the door slammed shut, I felt exhausted. In the TV’s dark reflection, I saw myself slouched and worn, looking just as I did years ago, curled up in my dorm’s corner. Back then, punches, slaps—they never stopped. Back then, I was too weak to fight back. But now? Even if Evan and Cassie thought they could trample over me, I’d make them pay.

After mulling it over, I did my makeup, slipped on a black velvet dress, and got a car to Greenfield Memorial Funeral Home. I know Evan’s vanity well; he cared more than anything about preserving his “good man” image, even telling me to play along with his little “henpecked husband” act in public. And now, he was determined to make me the villain so he could move on to Cassie with a clean slate. I wasn’t about to make that easy. Honestly, the first time Evan and I fought over Cassie should have been my wake-up call. He was no longer the man who once “rescued” me from the past. When I arrived, Evan seemed shocked to see me but quickly tried to come over, smiling. Before he could touch me, a small figure flung herself right past me and straight into his arms. Evan’s face froze for a second before softening again as he soothed Cassie, who sobbed dramatically into his chest, clearly relishing every second. The pity in his eyes? I didn’t miss that. I stood back and watched, unbothered. This little scene was precisely what I’d expected. Cassie’s all-time favorite pastime was using her pitiful, doe-eyed look to lure in other people’s boyfriends, just to toss them back with scorn. Cassie finally looked up, blinking as if just noticing me. She flinched, acting like a scared rabbit. “Mrs. Price,” she stammered, “I…didn’t see you there. Sorry, I just got so emotional….” Her eyes teared up again, playing innocent for the bystanders. “Oh, you got emotional, so naturally you ran into my boyfriend’s arms?” Caught off guard, Cassie’s face twitched before she stepped back from Evan’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Evan; I crossed the line.” With tears rolling down her cheeks, the murmurs around us grew. To anyone watching, I looked like the bad guy. “Sam, that’s enough,” Evan said, frowning and gently pulling Cassie close, comforting her again. I watched them calmly, then found myself a seat that offered a perfect view of their romantic little display. Picture-perfect. “Ow, monster punch!” I winced as a sharp pain hit my side. Turning, I saw Cassie’s nephew, Tommy, his nose running, throwing a toy robot at me. “Scared yet, monster? Pew pew!” I ignored him, but that only egged him on. He kicked my shin while his mom watched from a few feet away, clearly unfazed and absorbed in her conversation. “Little guy, that’s not very nice,” I said patiently, but he spat at me in response. Looking at his wild grin, a thought popped into my head. “Hey, you know how your toy shoots lasers? Can you do that?” His eyes lit up as he sniffled and mimicked his toy’s laser attack. “No, no, not like that. Real lasers make real lights—see? Like over there,” I said, pointing to a crowd getting ready to light up sparklers for the memorial. The moment I said it, a series of sparks went off, flashing in Tommy’s wide eyes. “See? Way cooler than just pretending.” He grinned, looking eager. I casually stepped back, putting some distance between us, just in case. Who knew what he’d do next? Sure enough, not long after, I heard a loud crack. Right in the center of the funeral hall, Cassie’s mother’s urn had fallen with a loud thud, scattering gray ash all over. The whole room fell silent. Even Cassie stared, shocked and still, as Tommy’s giggles broke through the hush. Well, wasn’t this the perfect disaster. I walked over to Cassie, leaned in, and whispered, “Your mom just went off with a bang.”

What started as a respectable funeral had turned into complete mayhem. I took my cue and made my exit, missing the shouting match that soon erupted. Someone recorded the whole scene and posted it online, and soon enough, it was trending. The comment sections were filled with debates on how to handle unruly kids, and a surprising amount of sympathy for “poor Cassie.” Seeing an opportunity, I logged into my anonymous account and sent the muted video to a gossip account. Since Cassie was already getting attention, they gladly took the footage without asking who I was. The video, which only showed Cassie clinging to Evan, made them look like a picture-perfect couple, with every clip showing Evan glued to Cassie with the softest look in his eyes. Once the video was sent, I packed a bag and took off for a brief vacation. This was only the beginning.

The trip lasted only two weeks, during which I blocked all contact from Evan, not that he tried to reach out. The peaceful grandeur of the Grand Canyon helped me reflect. For the first time, I realized I didn’t need anyone else—I could find peace within myself. But I didn’t forget Cassie. Her video had caught fire online, and though it initially garnered sweet comments about “true love,” some curious onlookers soon unearthed my existence, shifting the narrative. “Homewrecker” and “snake” filled the comments. This was exactly what I’d hoped for, but it was only a taste of what I had in store. Cassie, of course, saw this as her moment, starting live streams to cash in on her “fame.” And me? I tuned in, curious to watch her spin our story. Her live stream opened with those wide, tragic eyes, her trembling voice recounting her “forbidden” love with Evan. She played the part well, painting herself as a hopeless romantic who, in her moment of loss, found comfort in her “soulmate.” Naturally, she didn’t mention me at all. I had to admit, her move was clever—her delicate face, coupled with that pitiful act, had fans sympathizing with her. Some viewers even suggested I’d been dumped because Cassie was prettier. Apparently, to them, “Evan just fell for someone who was easier to love.” Seriously? Because she was prettier, she could just break up my relationship? So she was “delicate” and automatically excused? The internet even christened their fan club “Cloud Nine,” after Cassie and Evan, calling them a “match made in heaven.”

When I finally went back to the house Evan and I had shared, I opened the door to find Cassie standing there. She was wearing our matching fluffy slippers and my favorite silk camisole. Hearing the noise, Evan came out from the kitchen, spatula in hand, and froze when he saw me. “Sam…you’re back?” He looked as though he’d been caught red-handed. I let out a laugh. “If I hadn’t shown up, would I have walked in on something even more interesting?” “There was a big storm last night,” Evan mumbled, his voice defensive. “Cassie just needed somewhere to stay. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” His rigid tone only made it more obvious that he was lying. “If I’d come back a bit later, would you two have gone ahead and slept together?” “Oh, Mrs. Price, you’ve got it all wrong. Evan and I…we’re not…there’s nothing going on,” Cassie stammered, quickly fixing her hair and pulling the collar of the camisole just so, but I noticed the red mark on her neck. Nice try, but I wasn’t about to give her the show she wanted. No way was I going to start screaming, giving her the chance to play the innocent, hurt “other woman.” I brushed past both of them, went inside, and, ignoring their protests, locked them out of the house. Let them pound on the door all they wanted—I was done. This house was bought with money I’d made shortly after college by flipping stocks, saving up every cent for the down payment. I’d even thought it would be our home, where we’d build a future together. Now, it was the perfect place to kick him out of my life. The pounding eventually stopped, but soon after, I heard my phone ring. It was Blake Sutton, Evan’s old friend, calling in as backup. We’d only met a handful of times, but Blake wasn’t subtle. The first time we met, he’d openly looked me up and down, leaving me creeped out. So I knew this call was just him doing Evan’s bidding, putting on a “concerned” act. “Hey, Sam. I’m calling on behalf of Evan, okay? Look, Cassie really means nothing to him. You really shouldn’t lock him out in this cold weather, don’t you think? Neighbors might get a laugh, you know?” Blake’s smarmy tone grated on my nerves. “If they know what he’s been up to, why should he care what anyone else thinks? Tell Evan we’re done. I’ll pack up his things and leave them outside.” Without another word, I hung up, exhausted from my trip and the day. Finally, I fell into bed and slept. The next day, I hired a cleaning service to help sort through our things. I’d expected there to be a lot of shared memories, reminders of the years we’d spent together. But as we sorted, I found that his belongings barely filled one box. Nearly everything in the house was something I’d paid for myself. One item caught my eye: an old photograph buried in a drawer. Dusting it off, I looked closer and felt a chill run through me. It was Evan, back in high school, kissing a girl with a high ponytail and painfully thin frame. It was unmistakably Cassie. Evan had never told me he knew her back then, let alone that they’d dated. All the hazy memories I’d buried, trying to forget the bullying, came rushing back, suddenly sharper than ever.

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I am a blind young woman. Living alone, a man broke into my home one night to steal, but he also tried to assault me, slowly undoing my clothes, muttering about taking more than my body… he wanted my heart, too. Today is June 7th. It’s been exactly 1,095 days since I lost my sight. My name is Emily Shaw, and I’m twenty-one years old. But my life, my future—it all got destroyed three years ago. It was June 7th then, too, and I was on my way to the SATs, mumbling bits of the poems I’d reviewed that morning. That’s when I heard a young girl crying. Instinct told me that the man rushing off with her had to be trafficking her. People nearby ignored it all, but I couldn’t. I ran toward them. In a narrow alley, I fought to free the little girl from him. That’s where the man’s knife struck, stabbing into my eyes, blinding me for good. I was blinded by a sudden rush of blood. The pain was unbearable, yet I held that girl as tightly as I could. Later, her family dropped to their knees to thank me. The police awarded me a Community Bravery Award and $1,500. I was praised as a hero. But my life, my beautiful future, had ended there. At first, the family I saved would visit occasionally, bringing the little girl. But eventually, they stopped coming altogether. I remember the last time Maddie came. She giggled as she pressed a few coins into my hand and said, “You can go beg under the bridge someday, okay? My mom says if I don’t study hard or go blind like you, I’ll end up begging too!” My lips quivered, and I fought back my tears. Once, I was my mom’s precious girl, the light of her life. If I could do it all over again, I would never step in like that. I would rather be an indifferent stranger than give up the happiness of a lifetime. Since losing my sight, every day has felt like a year. I’ve had to depend on my mother, and she was the only family I had. A week ago, she passed away from illness, and though relatives came for the funeral, they soon left. Now, I am truly the loneliest person alive. It’s so empty that I don’t even know why I keep living. Since losing my sight, my other senses have only sharpened. My hearing has become so acute that I can hear the exact spot where a needle drops to the floor. I’ve memorized how many steps it is to the kitchen, the bathroom, the nearest fast-food place. I live carefully, counting my steps. But I keep on surviving because of one person. There’s someone I care for. His name is Daniel Hart, my high school boyfriend. Even after what happened, he didn’t break up with me. He would still come by and check on me, giving me a shred of comfort in my broken world. This afternoon, I was practicing my Braille dictionary in the living room when I heard a knock on the door. With my guide stick in hand, I started slowly toward the door, but the knocking became louder and more aggressive. “Hold on, hold on…,” I said quietly, but the person kept pounding on the door. “Hey, if you don’t open up, I’m leaving. I’m here to fix the pipes for free, and you’re just letting me wait. You think I’m—” The door swung open, and his rant cut off when he saw me. The draft chilled me, and I couldn’t help but shiver. I apologized, “Sorry, I’m blind. It took a bit to get over here.” He paused, mumbling after a moment, “Oh, that’s fine. You’re Ms. Shaw in 302, right? I’m Norman Brooks, the repairman they called in to check the pipes.” He reached out and touched my hand. Though reluctant, I shook it lightly. “Hello.” Norman was diligent and polite, finishing the repair, then even offering to clean up my bathroom for me. “Stay for tea?” I offered, politely. I heard him scratch his head and awkwardly decline. Just as he was leaving, I heard a key in the lock, and the door opened. “Emily, I brought you something good to eat!” I instantly recognized Daniel’s bright, comforting voice. My heart warmed, and I threw myself into his arms. “You’re finally here.” In my memory, Daniel still looked like he did at eighteen, his face warm and bright. Every time he came, I would trace my fingers over his face, his lips, his Adam’s apple. I was terrified of forgetting the face of the one I loved most. After all, he was all I had left in the world. We kissed, oblivious to Norman, who cleared his throat, reminding us he was still there. Blushing, I pulled away from Daniel. “Uh, Ms. Shaw, I’ll take off now. If your pipes act up again, just have maintenance call me. I’ll leave you two alone,” Norman said, sounding irritated. “Yes…Daniel, could you see him out?” I urged Daniel toward the door, but he stayed still, keeping me in his arms as if to prove a point. “Just a plumber,” he said quietly, “We paid him to do his job. No need to see him out.” I wanted to tell him that Norman had come voluntarily, without charging a thing, but I heard Norman already leaving. Daniel didn’t seem to care. I smelled the fresh bouquet of flowers he brought and heard him place them gently in a glass vase. “Emily, you have to keep living,” he said softly. “One day, I’ll marry you.” Daniel had gone off to Georgetown and was now prepping for grad school. I was happy for him; he was getting the life I never could. On our rare visits, Daniel would hold me as I drifted off to sleep. When he thought I was asleep, he would finally slip out. But this time, as he left, he took a call in the living room, and I heard everything. The familiar warmth of his voice had a different tone: “Hey, baby. I’m just here because she’s alone all the time, and the reporters still hang around every now and then. Don’t worry. I’ll get the last bit of her support check, cover my tuition, and after that, I’m out of here.” “A dumb, pathetic blind girl,” he said, chuckling. “I’m just using her. I’ve never loved her.” The shock flooded through me, bringing a searing pain, like a bolt from a clear sky. Daniel had felt disgust for me this whole time?

I had feared that Daniel might leave, but I never expected it would happen in such a cold, brutal way. I stopped reaching out to him, and true to his word, he never came back. Even if I knew he had cheated… what could I do? I couldn’t rage or stop him from seeking better choices. From then on, it felt as if the life had drained from me. I cried every day. Without sight, without family, and without love, only the dark and this empty building kept me company. One afternoon, I was in the shower, cleaning myself up as if for some final act. When I rinsed off the soap, I heard the sound of someone swallowing from somewhere in the room. My sharpened senses picked it up right away—a low, heavy sound, like a man’s breath. The darkness around me magnified my fear. “Who’s there? Who?” My voice wavered as I asked, tension tightening my chest. No answer came, only silence. Panicked, I fumbled for a robe, buttoning it with trembling fingers, and reached to lock the bathroom door. Just as I was about to lock it, I realized—it had been opened from the outside. The cold air filled my throat, squeezing it tight. My heart sank. Terrified, I slipped and fell, my robe catching on the handle, leaving me exposed on the cold floor. I heard the front door close from the inside. Someone was here. Two hands reached down and pulled me up, wrapping around my waist, his warm palm pressed against me. My teeth chattered, but the gentleness was an illusion. The next second, I felt the cold edge of a knife at my neck, a faint scent of blood in the air. He was injured. “Where’s the money?” he said in a gruff voice. From his voice and breath, I knew right away who it was—Norman Brooks, the plumber from earlier. My mind went into overdrive. He must have been trying to rob me, furious over some previous theft gone wrong, choosing me, the blind woman, as the easy target. “My mom has my savings…there’s no money here. Please, let me go,” I begged, though my mother had been gone for weeks. In reality, I had no savings left. I’d used up everything for Mom’s medical bills. Only a few emergency bills remained under my mattress. Norman scoffed, his sweat close to my ear. “Next time, then, little blind girl. If you tell anyone, you’ll be sorry.” I nodded, drenched in cold sweat. After that, he resumed his search, dragging me with him, looting my router, TV box, and an old vase, boxing up everything. Held by the neck, I couldn’t call out for help. The room was filled with the unbearable sound of water dripping from the kitchen sink. When he finally let me go, he brushed against me, making me shiver. His hands were rough and calloused from years of hard work. He paused and handed me my robe after a moment. As I dressed, I could feel his gaze on me. A blush rose to my cheeks, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “You’re…very beautiful,” he said suddenly, voice low. “I’ve never seen a woman’s body before. This is the first time.”

After he left, I took a moment to catch my breath, reaching out to check the lock on my door. It hadn’t been forced open. He had used a key. And the only spare key was with Daniel. Panic hit me as I screamed, blindly lashing out, knocking over the vase Daniel had placed so delicately in the living room. Glass shattered around me, and I stepped right onto a shard, but I didn’t feel the pain. Norman had stolen almost everything valuable from my home, leaving the place empty and mocking. Even my phone, my only way of reaching anyone, was gone. A voice in my head, cold and cutting, asked: Emily Shaw, what do you have left? Why are you still here? But another voice within me pushed back, fierce and defiant. No. I’m not going to let them break me. Not after everything. If I had to go down, I would take someone with me. I wiped away my tears and slowly made my way downstairs to the small convenience store to ask for help. The shop owner, Linda Carson, was there playing cards with some other women. Their laughter echoed through the summer air, completely ignoring me. Nervous, I held out five dollars and said quietly, “Please, I need help. There’s been a break-in at my place, and the man tried to assault me. Can you call the police?” The women went silent, and Linda Carson looked at me with mock sympathy before saying, “Oh, honey, who’d rob a place like yours? They’d be more likely to leave you some coins to survive on.” They burst into laughter, as if mocking my misery was a pastime. I clenched my fists, shame burning in my chest. It dawned on me how helpless I was—trapped, blind, with no one to turn to. Linda tossed a moldy loaf of bread at me, shouting, “Here, now take that and get lost. You’re in the way.” The stale bread struck my forehead, the pain blossoming. I reached up to hold my head, anger boiling over. “I might be blind, but I can see who you really are,” I snapped back. “I’m not some beggar you can insult as you please.” I was about to turn away when Linda shoved me back, dousing me in hot tea. “Here’s some sunshine for you, honey,” she sneered. The tea scalded my chest, searing through my skin, a painful reminder of how powerless I was. Tears stung my eyes as I thought of my mother, of Daniel, of everything that had led me here. Just then, a familiar deep voice cut through the crowd. “What the hell are you doing? She’s blind, for God’s sake. And you’re treating her like this?” It was Norman. My heart skipped a beat. Fear twisted inside me, knowing he was here. “You all better have some damn decency,” he barked, smashing Linda’s sign. She slammed down her shutters as the women scurried off, casting wary glances at him. Finally, we were alone, and I felt his presence near, his breathing still heavy from anger. “Ms. Shaw, are you okay?” His tone softened as he turned to me, a strange contrast to the fury moments before. “Yeah, yes…thank you.” My voice trembled. “What were you doing here anyway?” he asked, curiosity tinged with something else. I hesitated. I couldn’t tell him I was trying to report him for harassment and theft. “I…came for food,” I said softly. “Well, isn’t that convenient,” he chuckled. “I just stocked up on canned meat. Let’s go, I’ll walk you home.” When we returned to my apartment, he even swept up the glass shards on the floor. After he noticed the burn on my chest, he rummaged through my things until he found an ointment, carefully applying it to my skin. Sitting on the sofa, I felt strangely out of place in my own home, as if I were the guest, and he was the host. Fear and confusion tangled inside me, knowing how he’d helped me today but also remembering his threats. When it was time to take my medication, I swallowed it with water, hoping it would calm my nerves. I’d been on anti-anxiety meds since I lost my sight, a routine meant to keep me grounded. “Was it here where you got burned?” Norman asked, his fingers brushing my collarbone. “Yes, but…” I tried to stop him, but it was too late. He gave a sharp tug, pulling my strap down to examine the burn. His grip was firm, and a soft blush spread across my skin. “Don’t move. I’ve seen it all before,” he murmured, pressing the ointment into my skin, his fingers surprisingly gentle. My heart hammered, and I could hear the slight hitch in his breathing as he worked. “If anyone messes with you again, let me know,” he said softly. “I don’t have family. Got nothing to lose.” I moved to pull his hand away, and that’s when I noticed it—his leg. Or rather, the lack of it. His left leg was a prosthetic. I didn’t know what had happened to him, but it made me uneasy, a chill crawling up my spine. “Norman, I… I really don’t have any money. Please, don’t come back here again.” I forced the words out, my voice trembling. The air between us froze, his hand stilled, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, with a slow smile, he whispered, “No money? You’ve still got something else.” I tensed, unsure of what he meant. Before I could react, he pinned my arms over my head, pushing me down onto the sofa. His lips, cold and rough, found mine in a bruising kiss. Shock and terror pulsed through me, spreading like fire from my spine to my limbs. His kiss was brutal, forceful, more of an assault than an embrace, his breath heavy and primal. I thrashed, trying to break free, but his strength far outweighed mine. And as I felt his body’s shift, a deeper, more primitive fear took root inside me. Even blind, I knew what he intended to do.

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My arrogant roommate recently snagged herself a “trust fund guy” boyfriend and has made it her mission to make my life miserable. She even stole my scholarship, then rallied a bunch of people online to bash me. “Oh, look at the campus star,” she sneered, “Too proud to donate a dime for her roommate’s family even though her ‘scholarship boyfriend’ just gave a million!” I was speechless. The anonymous million-dollar donor was me. When she saw I didn’t react, she brought her boyfriend over to “put me in my place.” Wait, isn’t that… my family’s security guard? How did he end up driving my car to take girls on dates? 1、 Recently, my roommate Danielle Clementine has been dating a “trust fund guy,” and she flaunts it around the dorm nonstop. “Hey, check out this Tiffany bracelet he got me. Isn’t it gorgeous?” Danielle raised her wrist to catch the sunlight, making sure the bracelet sparkled just right. “Wow, that must’ve cost thousands! Your boyfriend’s so good to you!” “For real! Does he have any friends? Set us up!” The other girls gathered around her, laying on the compliments thick. They practically worshipped her, making Danielle beam like she’d just won an award. She even tossed around high-end cosmetics from her stash, and the others scrambled to grab whatever they could, fawning over her even more. I was off to the side, reading quietly, not joining the chorus. This caught Danielle’s attention, and she gave me a sour look. “Sophie, don’t you think this Tiffany bracelet is stunning? Way better than that cheap silver bangle you’re always wearing, right?” I glanced at her “Tiffany” bracelet and knew right away it was a knockoff. My “plain” silver bracelet? A limited-edition piece from Tiffany’s. But seeing Danielle so proud of her “luxury” item, I held back. “Yeah, it’s really pretty. My little silver bracelet is nothing special.” Danielle’s smile widened, clearly pleased, and she came over and snapped my book shut. “Sophie, you really need to invest in some decent jewelry. It’s embarrassing standing next to you.” I was at a loss for words. Everyone knew Danielle’s background wasn’t exactly high-end; her family wasn’t even middle-class. She’d lived in cheap T-shirts and jeans before this “boyfriend” came along, and now she acted like a celebrity. I nodded absentmindedly, trying to remember what page I was on before she interrupted. Alexa Wind, another roommate, joined Danielle, looping her arm around Danielle’s. “Don’t worry about her. You and she aren’t even in the same league. Let’s have dinner together tonight. I want to hear more about you and your boyfriend!” Danielle smirked and raised her voice. “No can do. I’m going out with my boyfriend tonight.” Jealousy flickered in Alexa’s eyes. “Oh, at a fancy restaurant, right? Be sure to post on your feed!” Danielle said nothing, applying makeup for a solid fifteen minutes before putting on her one dress that cost more than $500, strutting out like a high-society swan. That evening, I ordered spicy gumbo and was eating happily in the dorm when Alexa squealed over her phone, “Danielle just posted! Look! Foie gras, caviar, red wine, steak… Oh my gosh!” A group of roommates crowded around to see, and Alexa glanced at my gumbo with a disdainful look. “Some people go on fancy dates with trust fund guys, and some just stay home with cheap gumbo. Isn’t the difference staggering?” I looked down at my steaming bowl of gumbo. Eating gumbo was a crime now? Seeing I wasn’t reacting, Alexa waved her phone in front of my face. “See? Danielle and her boyfriend are just so perfect together.” I glanced at the picture, and immediately my interest was piqued. The “trust fund guy” with his arm around Danielle? My family’s new security guard! My dad struck it rich with his first jackpot win and eventually made millions in Seattle through successful investments. During high school, I had everything: designer clothes, a chauffeur, and more. But the downside? I nearly got kidnapped. After that, Dad insisted I keep a low profile when I went to college. Even though he’d bought a mansion for me in Greenwich, Connecticut, near Columbia University, he encouraged me to stay on campus with other students. I was still used to high-quality clothes, so when people noticed, I started calling them knockoffs to keep a low profile. Eventually, everyone assumed I was a bit of a poser with a taste for imitation brands. I didn’t care—I was here to study. My dad never got the chance to go to college, so he always told me, “We may have nothing but money, but you study hard and make me proud!” A wall at home was covered with certificates of my achievements, each probably worth pennies, but each framed and tended to by the housekeeper. One time, Dad even climbed a ladder to glue a loose corner back on one of the frames. I came to college aiming to win scholarships every year. Money didn’t matter; it was all about the honor. I spent most of my time in the library and rarely went home to the mansion. Recently, we had to replace one of our security guards, so the previous one recommended his nephew, Tony James. He seemed responsible, so I didn’t hesitate to hire him. And here he was, passing himself off as a rich boyfriend for Danielle! As the roommates huddled around Danielle’s post, I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. 2 Danielle came back from her date, wearing a knockoff Chanel outfit and carrying a pile of gifts. One by one, she unwrapped them, and the roommates fawned over her. “Danielle, that Chanel looks amazing on you.” “Wow, a Gucci perfume too! Can I just hold it for a second?” “So jealous! You had a date at a five-star hotel, right?” Danielle didn’t stop smiling, even sneaking a glance my way as she unwrapped a bag and held it up. “Hey, Sophie, I remember you have a similar Hermès. Wanna bring it out so we can compare?” I took out an earbud, barely responding when Danielle opened my locker, pulling out my Hermès tote to place it beside hers. Danielle raised her voice. “Wow, Sophie, your tote doesn’t look quite the same as mine, does it?” The difference was obvious. Danielle’s was brighter, had thicker edging, and felt smoother—traits of a knockoff. Feigning surprise, Danielle said, “How strange! Mine’s a gift from my boyfriend. Yours came from home, didn’t it?” Alexa, catching Danielle’s hint, chimed in, “Oh yeah, Sophie did start college with knockoffs. Makes sense her bag isn’t the real deal.” Alexa continued, “Sophie, buying fake designer stuff doesn’t change your background. If you’re always flaunting knockoffs, it’s just going to cloud your perspective.” Danielle beamed at Alexa’s support, then turned to me with a condescending look. “I’d rather not have a roommate who doesn’t know right from wrong.” The two of them clearly expected me to cower, but I kept my cool, suppressing the urge to slap down the receipts right in front of them. Dad’s advice flashed in my mind, so I reined it in. “Danielle, did you ask permission before rummaging through my stuff? And Alexa, you’ve got a real knack for flattery. You two make a great team.” Danielle scoffed and picked up a pair of scissors. “Well, if I hadn’t looked, I’d never know just how far your vanity goes. I’ll be nice and help you out by cutting up this knockoff.” She aimed the scissors at my bag, and Alexa stepped closer, urging the others to hold me down. Completely unfazed, I said calmly, “Danielle, go ahead. But if you make a single cut, you’re paying for it.” “Even if this is a fake Hermès, it’s still worth thousands. You sure you can cover it?” After a pause, Danielle backed down, sulking as she put the scissors away. She threw me a glare before retreating. I hadn’t expected Danielle to cave that easily. The cheapest Hermès knockoff could cost just a few hundred bucks, probably around what Danielle’s bag was worth. I glanced her way and said, “Clean up my locker when you’re done.” Alexa sneered, “Sophie, don’t push it.” Danielle ignored me, humming to herself as she cleaned up. But I wasn’t letting it go. “Danielle, I’ll only ask once more. Clean my locker.” Danielle rolled her eyes, acting indifferent, but I stood up, kicked her chair, and said firmly, “I won’t ask again.” My roommates were all rich kids, unused to confrontation, and froze. Even Alexa went silent. Danielle gave a small shiver but reluctantly came over to clean up. I heard her mumble an insult under her breath, but I didn’t care. When she finished, I checked my now-organized locker, then returned to my seat and started reading my textbook out loud. The dorm went completely quiet, my voice clear as day. 3 I didn’t give Danielle much more thought, putting all my energy into earning a scholarship. My GPA was the highest in the department, I aced all my physical exams, and I participated in every scholarship-eligible event. So imagine my shock on award day when Danielle’s name topped the list for the National Merit Scholarship—and mine was nowhere to be found, not even a minor award. The hours I’d poured into studying, the sweat I’d shed—all a joke. Fuming, I checked my records. My scores were all top-tier except for “character,” where Ms. Julia Lambert had marked me as “unsatisfactory.” Heart pounding with anger and confusion, I marched to Ms. Lambert’s office. Upon entering, I found Danielle sitting there, smiling, as if she had just received an award. “Wow, didn’t expect to get so lucky. Guess hard work doesn’t always pay off, huh, Sophie?” Ignoring her, I asked, “Ms. Lambert, I have a question about the scholarship results.” Ms. Lambert sighed, adjusting her glasses, and said coldly, “Sophie, academics aren’t everything. You lack teamwork and character, so I couldn’t recommend you for the scholarship.” I was stunned. As a class rep, I got along with everyone and often lent my notes before exams. I’d done nothing to deserve this… except maybe clash with my roommates. Danielle’s guilty expression confirmed my suspicion. Taking a deep breath, I calmly turned to Ms. Lambert. “Ms. Lambert, basing this on one person’s word seems unfair.” Ms. Lambert’s face hardened. “Are you questioning my decision?” Danielle piled on. “Oh, Ms. Lambert, don’t bother with her. Sophie can be pretty low-brow.” I couldn’t help but notice Ms. Lambert’s “Tiffany” bracelet, a familiar knockoff. “Ms. Lambert, that Tiffany bracelet—you got that from Danielle, didn’t you?” Leaving Ms. Lambert speechless, I exited, saying, “If I can’t get justice here, there’s always the Dean.” Danielle sneered, “Go ahead. I’d love to see you try.” In the hallway, whispers buzzed about the scholarship. The room fell silent as I passed, except for Alexa’s mocking voice. “Well, look who’s here—the top student. Can’t even snag a scholarship?” I ignored her, called the Dean’s office, and when I couldn’t reach him, sent a long email detailing everything with evidence attached. After a week of waiting and disappointment, I had just given up when my phone buzzed. It was a message from Dad: “Don’t forget about your old man now that you’ve won! Keep up the good work.” Choked with emotion, I video-called my parents, finally letting the tears flow as I explained everything. Mom was furious, slapping Dad on the shoulder. “Frank, you call the Dean right now and demand this counselor be fired!” I sniffled, “I’ve tried; they don’t respond. What can Dad do?” Dad scratched his head. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m on the board of trustees.” Before I could react, the Dean called personally, apologizing and promising immediate action. Right as Danielle strutted in, the Dean’s voice rang through the speaker, “As per school policy, your roommate will face disciplinary action and return the scholarship.” Danielle burst out laughing. “Really, Sophie? Did you just hire someone to pretend they’re the Dean? That’s hilarious!”

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My mom is a madwoman, and ever since I can remember, she’s forced me to pretend I’m mute. She calls me her son, binds my chest with strips of cloth, makes me stand up to pee, and even chains me at home like a dog. When I was eleven, Virgil Thompson, the village chief, brought over four relatives to spend the night with my mother. The bed creaked wildly, and Virgil joked, “What a shame that the mute one isn’t a girl. Then we could all get some fun out of it and have her give us each a kid.” And right then, I felt a rush of warmth between my legs. That was my first orgasm. The woods were thick with mosquitoes, and by the time I got back from picking berries, my skin was covered in itchy red bumps. It was a lively day in the village. Aunt Martha and Aunt Jean had both given birth. By the time I got back, it was all over, and there were two tiny, wrinkled bundles left behind. The midwife lifted Aunt Martha’s baby and announced, “A boy!” Everyone cheered. She then raised Aunt Jean’s child and said, “Another money drain!” Old Man Lee’s face darkened immediately. He lifted the squalling little girl by one foot, squinting at her. “Ugly thing,” he muttered. “Ha!” Virgil Thompson laughed. “What can you expect from a woman you bought for five hundred bucks? Might as well drown her and save some grain.” Mr. Dean Rivers, the teacher, chimed in, “You know, the only decent woman left in this village is that madwoman’s daughter. Too bad she’s broken beyond repair. Look at the mute one’s face, though – not even grown yet, but there’s already a hint of her mom’s sassiness.” Right then, he spotted me and waved. “Hey, Mute, come over here! Got some food for you!” The stone table near the village gate was piled with fresh bread rolls. I couldn’t hold back my drool, so I put down my basket and walked over. Mr. Dean Rivers handed me the crying baby girl and said, “Go on, drown her. Uncle will give you half a roll.”

This wasn’t the first time a girl had been drowned in Coldwater Hollow. According to Virgil, girls were just mouths to feed – they ate a lot, didn’t work as much, and by the time you raised one up, the grain it cost would be more than the price of a wife you could buy from outside. Take my mom, for instance. She went to a top college, and she was sold off for barely two grand. If you raised a girl from birth, between all the food and the work, it would cost you at least three or four thousand. On top of that, farm-raised girls are tougher and darker from working under the sun – none of that fresh, pretty look you’d get from an outsider. So, there usually weren’t girls in the village. Aunt Martha was an exception. She’d been brought in along with her little five-year-old girl. They said her daughter was as pretty as a doll, with a porcelain complexion, and Uncle Harvey spoiled her, fed her the best, and didn’t let her do any chores. By the time she was old enough, the men in the village would go visit her. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes in groups. Sometimes just her, sometimes with Aunt Martha too. They always seemed so pleased afterward, and Uncle Harvey would sit by the door collecting coins, either a dollar or fifty cents a head. With Aunt Martha and her daughter around, Uncle Harvey never had to work in the fields. I remember that the girl had already grown into a young woman by then. When the traffickers came around again, Uncle Harvey showed her off, and they bought her for a handful of fresh bills. That money built their house. When Uncle Harvey’s house went up, everyone was envious. Soon, they were all coming over to spend nights with my mother. My mom was much prettier than Aunt Martha. They all said that if she had a daughter, she’d be even more beautiful. But Mom never got pregnant again.

I took the baby girl from Mr. Dean Rivers. She was all wrinkled, with bruises under her skin, but her cries were loud, and her little arms and legs waved around, reaching out into the air. The stone table near the village gate already had a basin of water waiting. I leaned her back into it. She flailed and cried, almost like she was trying to swim while I held her. People crowded around eagerly to watch. I let go, and she began struggling desperately. Water splashed everywhere, and she choked, her cries louder than before. The men laughed, and the women stayed far back. “Hold her down! Don’t let her splash me!” Virgil shouted. Mom never let me see when they drowned a girl, but I’d watched from high up in the fruit trees on the mountainside. I was just about to press the baby’s arms and legs down like I’d seen, but then someone shoved me hard. It was my mom. She held me down on the ground, scratching and clawing at me, screaming, “You rotten thing! You good-for-nothing!” I curled up on the ground, wailing and crying. But Mom didn’t care. She beat me until she was exhausted, while the village chief and everyone else laughed. “Look, the madwoman’s going off again!” “Mute, hit her back! Beat the crazy out of her!” My mom pinned me to the ground, panting heavily. Her eyes were red, brimming with tears. I didn’t understand why she was so angry. They drowned girls every year here. Just like I didn’t understand why she kept binding my chest every day. I liked the way my chest had started to feel, the way it was slowly rising. Because it made me feel like I looked a little bit like her.

Mom left my face bruised and swollen. While she hit me, the village chief was nearby drowning the newborn girl. The sound of her coughing and gasping mingled with Mom’s crying, and it was terrifying. The girl died quickly. The village dogs began barking, fighting over the tiny body. Mom wrapped a dog chain around my neck and yelled crazily, “Take the dog out for a walk! Chop it up for stew, dog meat stew!” Everyone laughed as they wandered off. Some even joked, “How many pots do you think that’ll make?” Mom rattled the chain, “Go on, boy! Bite him! Bite him!” I didn’t move, and the people asking her laughed and went back to their feast. Mom pulled me by the chain, heading toward the Smoky Ridge Trail on the edge of the village. Mr. Dean Rivers said this was our own hidden Eden. The mountain god, he said, watched over the men here, protecting their livestock, their poultry, and their women from the outside world.

The villagers said that after my dad died, no one repaired our house, so it fell apart. Mom and I lived in a shack at the foot of the mountain. There were guards stationed on the path leading in and out of the village. At first, they wouldn’t let us near, but Mom went off with one of them into the bushes, and after that, we were allowed to stay. I waited a long time for her to come back. When she did, she had a flashlight. She clicked it on, and I saw dust dancing in the beam. Mom reached into my messy hair, “Does it hurt?” It hurt. But not like it used to. I wasn’t really mute. Ever since I could remember, Mom had forbidden me to speak in front of others. If I disobeyed, she’d beat me. So I spoke slowly and haltingly, “N-now it d-doesn’t hurt anymore.” Tears began to roll down Mom’s face. “Oh, baby, how could you take a life like that?” She cradled my face. “It was just a biscuit – just a biscuit!” I looked at her, confused. But it was a biscuit. A soft, warm biscuit that was delicious and didn’t scratch my throat. In my life, how often do I get to eat something like that? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had one. Mom’s eyes welled up again as she looked at me. She held me tightly, crying as if she’d just lost something precious. She cried for a long time, and my back went numb from holding her. I thought about that baby girl the dogs fought over. Why hadn’t she let me drown her? If I hadn’t done it, someone else would have. If I’d done it, Virgil would have given me that warm biscuit. Then Mom and I could have split it. We’d each get half. No, I’d give Mom most of it. I’d only need a little. Mom worked so hard – farming, cooking, gathering firewood, patching up our shack. If I ever got my hands on one of those biscuits, I’d give Mom most of it. I’d be happy with just a small bite.

Mom cried for a long time before finally stopping. Then she went back to saying the same things she’d been saying for years. She looked at me and said, “Joy, tell me one more time. After you get over the mountain, what will you do?” I didn’t really understand why she kept asking. Everyone knows you can’t get over that mountain. The village is the whole world. But I went along with her anyway, saying, “After I get over the mountain, I’ll go west toward the sunset, and walk for a long time. I’ll pass three towns with lots of people, and then, in the fourth town, I’ll find a store and break everything inside.” “And if the store owner tries to stop you, then what?” she asked. “I’ll call the cops, tell them to call my Grandpa to pay for it. My Grandpa’s name is Samuel Alexander, he lives in Oakwood Estates in Parkland, Illinois. He has a daughter named Rachel Alexander. Rachel, like a home full of books,” I recited. Mom’s tears rolled down her face. “Joy, one day you’ll have all the bread rolls you want. And there’ll be meat, vegetables – things that smell good. You’ll have pretty dresses, and you’ll go to school, meet a man who respects you, loves you, and you’ll have a happy life.” I nodded to comfort her. It was obvious her mind was slipping again. How could there be plenty of bread rolls? I may only be eleven, but I’ve learned enough to understand the way things work in this world. Bread rolls only come out at big gatherings. Only Virgil and the men who bring new wives to the village get meat or vegetables. A “pretty dress” was just another one of Mom’s delusions. A girl is only a tool for men to have children and do work. Why would men respect or love a tool? Even though Mom had always tried to turn me into a boy, I was still just a girl. How could I ever have a happy life? As long as I can sell myself for a good price someday and make life a little easier for Mom, that’s enough for me.

The next day, before dawn, I was woken up by a woman’s desperate cries. “Please! I’m begging you!” “Let me go!” “I’ll give you money!” “My family has money, I can pay you more!” It was delivery day for the new “wives,” and sure enough, the new ones were already fighting. I’d seen this so many times before. Women usually fought when they first arrived. The tougher ones put up a fight, but after a few more beatings, they’d give up. The harder they fought, the worse they got beaten. The other women would tell them, “Stop fighting. Just accept it.” But Mom never said that. She’d told me once, “This place is a trafficker’s village. Every woman here was taken from somewhere else.” She said every man here deserved to die and that they’d all pay for what they’d done. I used to believe her without a doubt. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to wonder if she’s wrong. Is there really such a thing as justice? They all seem so happy. One of the new women was pulled out of the shack, her clothes ripped off, her cries of pain drowned out by the men’s laughter. Virgil’s son, only seven years old, joined in, poking and prodding her, encouraged by the men. Mom covered my eyes. “Don’t look.” But I’d already seen it too many times. The cries of those women never left me; they were always so full of despair, while the men were so full of joy. Mom seemed to be planning something. “Tell me again, what’s Grandpa’s name?” she asked. I repeated, “Grandpa’s name is Samuel Alexander. He lives in Oakwood Estates in Parkland, Illinois. He has a daughter named Rachel Alexander. Rachel, like a home full of books.” Mom nodded through her tears. “Don’t worry. Everything will be alright. Very soon. I promise you, baby.”

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I’m a sophomore in college, and for the past four months, I’ve hidden my pregnancy from everyone, including my parents. Watching my belly start to show, I had no choice but to move out. Now, I spend my days in a small rented room, surviving on expired bread and puking until I feel like I might pass out. But the most terrifying part? I don’t know who the father is. I was drunk that night and have no memory of what happened. It started because I couldn’t stop throwing up. When I saw a pregnancy test lying around in the bathroom, I couldn’t help myself; I grabbed one and took it. To my shock, it was positive—two solid lines. I stood there, hands shaking, staring at the test in disbelief. My boyfriend and I had never gone all the way, and I was still a virgin…yet here I was, pregnant. The next day, I took a day off from classes and went to Chicago Memorial Hospital to get checked out. The doctor looked at my results and told me, “Congratulations, you’re already ten weeks along. The baby’s heart is beating normally, and everything looks healthy.” My mind went blank. Fear and confusion washed over me, but I somehow managed to ask through clenched teeth, “Doctor, my boyfriend and I…we’ve only been…close, but never fully intimate.” “Well, that does depend on how close. It’s rare, but it’s possible for pregnancy to occur even with limited contact,” she explained seriously. “Maybe you’re just very fertile.” On my way back, I was still dazed and barely holding myself together. I called Ben Harris, my boyfriend. As soon as he picked up, I burst into tears and told him about the pregnancy. He was silent, then finally said, “That’s impossible.” When we met, his reaction wasn’t to comfort me but to explode, yelling, “Lily Thompson, don’t play dumb with me. We’ve never gone that far, so who’s the real father? Don’t make me play the fool.” Shocked, I yelled back, “Don’t try to pin this on me! You’re my first love, and I’ve always been careful!” Red-faced, he fired back, “Well, it’s not mine. Our ‘close moments’ didn’t go that far…are you seriously that clueless?” Seeing him so defensive, my heart sank, and I was left with only one option. “Fine, then. If that’s how you feel, let’s just break up.” I turned and walked away, holding back tears. Yet even after all this, I couldn’t go through with it. When I arrived alone at the clinic, I stood outside the door, trembling. Just as they called me back, I panicked and ran out. Lost in thought on my way home, I recalled the doctor’s words: ten weeks. Ben and I had only been away together twice, and even the last time was two weeks off from when I supposedly conceived. Ten weeks ago would have been before winter break—when a bunch of us went out to that karaoke bar downtown and sang until late. The next morning, I had woken up in a strange hotel room with no memory of how I got there. I’d assumed a friend had taken me back, but since my clothes were neat, I thought I’d just gotten too drunk and left it at that. Suddenly, it all clicked: Ben must have taken advantage of me that night and wouldn’t admit it. Calming down, I went back to the bar to check the door footage from that night, but they told me it had been erased after 30 days. Luckily, the coffee shop across the street kept three months of footage, and I managed to get their exterior video from that night. I watched, hoping to catch Ben taking me away so I could confront him, make him own up as the father, and finally discuss what to do about this baby. But to my surprise, the footage showed it wasn’t Ben who took me that night. In fact, right after winter break started, he’s caught on video saying a blurry goodbye: “See you next year, guys!” and walking away. Then he takes a phone call and leaves early, not returning that night at all. My mind went blank, thunderstruck. If it wasn’t him, then…who is the father of the child I’m carrying?

Just then, I noticed I had two unread messages on my phone. One was from my stepbrother, Ethan Marshall, and the other was an odd message from my class group chat, with a notice from Mr. Tom Farley. Ethan is my mother’s stepson from her second marriage. He’s two years older than me and didn’t do well in school, so he left for tech school early. We hardly talk and don’t have much in common. Today, though, he sent a message out of the blue, asking, “Hey, how’ve you been? I’m on my way to Chicago on the train; thought I’d come visit you.” Why would Ethan suddenly decide to visit me after all this time? I frowned. In the class group chat, Mr. Farley had posted something equally strange: “Physical exams will be scheduled soon, and it’s important they reflect accurately in your records. If you’re not feeling well, see someone about it soon…” Was it a warning, or was I just being paranoid? When I went to meet Ethan at Union Station, he showed up with bags in tow, wearing my stepdad’s old army jacket and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His slouchy, careless attitude didn’t fit in with my student life at all. To this day, I don’t know what my mom saw in my stepfather and his son—messy, poor, and plain-looking. Ethan saw me and gave a lazy smile, ignoring my distasteful look. “So, this is a rare warm welcome from my little sister. How’s that fancy Big Ten university treating you?” he asked. “Great. Not that it’s any of your business,” I replied coolly. “You seeing anyone?” “Yes,” I said shortly. “Same class as me, handsome and from a great family.” I walked faster, not interested in telling him Ben and I had broken up. “Looks aren’t everything. You need someone who’ll treat you right, like our dad treats your mom. That’s why he got her in the first place,” he said, looking smug. “Times have changed, not every successful woman is as love-struck as my mom,” I replied sarcastically. “I booked you a hotel, so you can stay there for now.” He’d come to Chicago supposedly looking for work since he said the jobs back home were no good, and my mom had asked me to help him out. As we walked into the hotel lobby, his phone rang. “Couldn’t stay in school, now you’re out of a job too, huh? You’re going to give your grandpa a heart attack!” It was my stepdad, calling him out. Ethan snapped back, “Well, maybe I’ll finally find him a granddaughter-in-law, a girl just like he’s always wanted.” “Stay close to your sister; you don’t know anyone there…” my stepdad added. “I know Chicago better than you think. I came here before winter break, didn’t I?” he retorted. I stopped dead in my tracks, handing him his room card, and stared at him in shock. “You came here before winter break?” He hesitated and then shrugged it off. “Maybe. Don’t remember.” He popped a gum bubble, made a face at me, and then took his bags, heading for the elevator. As the doors closed, my mind exploded. Two months ago, when I was assaulted…he was in Chicago too? My fists clenched, and memories of something horrible from years ago crept up. Even by society’s standards, we were siblings. Well…until that one day when we crossed a terrible line.

It was six summers ago. I was thirteen, just beginning to mature, and looked older than my age. I often got attention from boys, though I was a straight-A student and kept to myself. That summer, my mom and stepdad had only been married six months, and Ethan had just moved in with us. I remember that one humid afternoon. The power went out, and I lay on a mat, trying to nap, though I was sticky from the heat and only half-asleep. In a daze, I felt something cool run across my skin, followed by a sound of admiration. “Who’s there?” I jerked awake and saw my tank top bunched up around my waist, and there was Ethan, smirking above me, acne and hormones plastered across his face. “You’re so pretty, Lily.” With no one else home, I had no way of pushing him off. “Help! What are you doing?!” I yelled, trying to fight him off. I screamed in pain, which seemed to spook him, and he eventually backed off without doing anything more. But he still left me sobbing and ran out of the house in a panic. I buried that memory deep to protect my mom’s happiness. After that, I applied to board at school and practically stayed away for all of high school. Even though Ethan never tried anything again, I couldn’t let go of the grudge. Now, if he was in Chicago that night two months ago, could he have been the one who hurt me? I sat there, lips trembling, overwhelmed. It was too much to handle alone, so I reached out to Megan, my closest friend, and cried my heart out. While I was always the one jumping into relationships, Megan was the voice of reason who kept me grounded. But even her usual calm vanished when she saw my ultrasound report. “You’re pregnant?” she whispered, shocked. “I thought you didn’t believe in premarital…wait, did that jerk Ben force himself on you?” “No, we broke up. I have no idea who the father is,” I replied, drained. After I told her everything, Megan thought carefully, then asked, “Why not check the hotel’s security footage from that night?” Most places keep records for at least three months, so I went to the hotel, but they refused, citing guest privacy. Helpless, I held my stomach and sighed, “Maybe I should just get an abortion, then report it?” Megan shook her head. “If you do that, all evidence will be gone, and without it, the police will be powerless. It’s already been almost three months. It could be anyone from your group that night, and reporting it without proof will only raise suspicions.” She was right. But how could I figure out who had hurt me? Megan paused, thinking back on her time working nights at The Rave. She’d seen all kinds of wild stories.

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During a basketball game at Westfield, I accidentally broke the Cartier watch of Chelsea White, one of the most popular, wealthy girls at school. Tyler, my boyfriend, rushed over to her, carefully cradling her wrist as he scolded me, “Harper, can’t you be more careful? Can you even afford to replace this?” Just a Cartier? Please. I have a drawer full of Vacheron Constantins and Rolexes at home, yet I’ve never seen him worry over me like this. The Student Council organized a girls’ basketball game, and during the match, my elbow collided with something hard as I fought Chelsea for the ball. I didn’t think much of it—bumps and hits are just part of the game. But she screeched, “Stop! Harper, you broke my watch!” It’s just a watch. What’s she so worked up about? The game was intense, and we were close to winning. I wasn’t about to stop over this. “Sorry, I’ll cover it, okay? Let’s just finish the game first.” But Chelsea, in all her self-righteousness, snatched the ball right out of my hands and tossed it out of bounds, forcing the game to stop. I wasn’t thrilled. She held her chin high and announced, “Harper, this is a Cartier.” I glanced at her wrist. Watches aren’t really my thing—I don’t usually wear one. I could tell it was Cartier, but I had no idea which model or its price. Definitely didn’t look vintage, so maybe a few thousand. Fixing a watch face isn’t even a big expense. Her dramatic reaction wasn’t necessary. Everyone huddled around. “Oh my God, Chelsea, what are you going to do?” “Look at that shattered face! Oh, it makes me cringe.” Seeing everyone look so worried, I asked, “Is this thing really that expensive?” Someone who clearly knew their stuff spoke up, “Of course! It’s a Ballon Bleu!” Chelsea shoved her wrist in my face. “Over four thousand dollars!” Everyone gasped. That was way off from the tens of thousands I’d imagined. For that price, getting the glass repaired shouldn’t cost more than a couple hundred at most. She grimaced. “I’ll have to send it to a Cartier store, and then they’ll ship it to Switzerland for repairs. It’ll take at least a month!” What a hassle. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a new one,” I offered. Though I doubted she’d like a Vacheron. My parents have given me watches that start at ten grand, but I don’t wear them, so they’re all just sitting at home. Might as well give her one of those. “A new one?” She looked scornful. “This isn’t some knock-off, you know! My dad brought this straight from Switzerland!” It’s not like I planned on giving her a fake. This girl was unbelievable. I’d heard her family had some money. She carried a different Louis Vuitton or Chanel bag every day and treated people to bubble tea pretty often. But my family isn’t exactly struggling. That new building on campus? My dad donated that. I asked, “So, what do you want to do about it?” My boyfriend, Tyler, had just come back with water for me and was caught up on the whole situation. He turned to me with this look of blame, “Harper, couldn’t you be more careful?!” How was I supposed to know someone would be wearing a watch while playing basketball? Doesn’t it feel uncomfortable? Doesn’t it get in the way? “Harper, look at yourself. Can you even afford this?” Tyler had never spoken to me like this before. He gently held Chelsea’s wrist as if it was something precious. It’s just a broken watch. And my elbow’s still throbbing. “All right, Chelsea, how do you want to handle this? How much is it going to cost?” She still looked mournful. “I’ll have to get it checked at the store first.” Fine. “Just send me the receipt once it’s checked, and I’ll wire you the money.” Seemed like a reasonable solution. With all this fuss, I didn’t even feel like playing anymore. Neither did anyone else; they were too busy gossiping. “Wow, how’s Harper so calm about this? That’s going to be at least a few thousand. She’ll need to skip meals for months to pay that off.” “She doesn’t even know what it’ll cost to replace the glass! She probably thinks it’s just a piece of cheap glass.” I keep a low profile at Westfield. I don’t flaunt my wealth, and though my clothes and dorm decor are nice, they’re discreet with no big logos. Most people can’t tell what brand anything is. In situations like this, I can’t just flash my bank balance and yell, “I’ve got money.” Whatever. I couldn’t care less what they thought. I grabbed my stuff and walked off the court.

Tyler caught up to me and put his arm around my shoulder. “Harper, are you upset?” It would be a lie to say I wasn’t. He hadn’t given my feelings a second thought. “Don’t be mad, okay? I did it all for you. Didn’t you notice I was giving you the ‘play along’ look?” I honestly hadn’t. “By calling you out, I was trying to get Chelsea to drop it. As long as I showed I was on her side, she wouldn’t make it worse for you.” Is that how it worked? I wasn’t convinced. “Besides, I kept stressing that you couldn’t afford it, thinking Chelsea would let it go. But you didn’t get my hint at all and offered to pay right away!” It’s just a bit of money. Our cook spends more than that on groceries. Why waste time arguing? “Look, Harper, I’ll cover half of it for you.” I waved him off. “No need.” “We’re a couple. When we get married, it’ll all be shared assets anyway. Half and half sounds about right.” He took my hand and smiled sweetly. Turns out his “planning” was really just his practical thinking for our future together. Nice to know. I leaned into him. “What are our plans for tomorrow?” Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, and my family didn’t know I was dating anyone. My brother, Damon, who swore we two single “loners” needed to stick together, wanted to take me out. Tyler sighed, “Harper, I have to tutor tomorrow.” Oh. I had hoped he’d meet my brother. I felt a bit let down. But he looked determined. “It’s all for our future.” Tyler was always working so hard. As his girlfriend, it made sense to support him. “All right, then.”

Early Valentine’s Day, Tyler asked me to come downstairs. He was holding a bouquet of red roses and a beautifully wrapped gift bag. The moment he saw me, he gave me a big hug. “Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. I can’t stay long, but we had to keep the tradition going, right?” I thought I wouldn’t get to see him, but he’d clearly prepared a gift in advance. We chatted briefly, and he left. I happily went back to my dorm and opened the gift. It was a YSL gift set. My roommates gasped. “Wow, Harper, your boyfriend really spoils you!” “He must’ve spent a lot. No wonder he’s been so busy. He’s been working extra to afford this!” Tyler had given me what he thought was his very best. I was pleased. Jessie, my roommate and a beauty blogger, gave the box a long look but stayed quiet. She had a sharp eye for quality, so when she didn’t react, the other two hesitated to keep praising. “Jessie, is there something wrong?” I asked. She picked up the lipstick, examining it with a hint of reluctance. “I’m not completely sure. Let me check with a friend.” My heart sank. I’d never thought much about fake products or the difference between genuine and counterfeit. But if Jessie had doubts, there was a strong chance it was a fake. Out of consideration, she offered to double-check with someone. My other roommate consoled me, “Harper, maybe Tyler doesn’t know about luxury brands and got scammed.” “Yeah, straight guys can’t tell the difference between real and fake products.” They had a point. I messaged Tyler, “Where did you buy this gift set?” A few minutes later, he replied, “From the official store.” He even attached a screenshot of the purchase record. Could fake items show up in an official store? Or maybe Jessie was wrong this time? Tyler: “Is something wrong, babe? Don’t you like it?” Me: “No, it’s great. Thank you.” Tyler: “As long as you’re happy. I have to go tutor now, but let’s talk later, okay?” Damon took me to Lakeside Amusement Park, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Then, Jessie sent me another message, “It’s fake.” She shared some comparison photos of real and fake products. “Tyler probably bought it from an off-brand store.” She even sent a link to a $100 YSL gift set that matched mine exactly. “If he told you the truth, maybe he really thought YSL was that cheap. But if he’s lying, you should think twice about staying with him.” I was at a loss for words. I asked her, “Could the official store sell fakes?” “No way. This set is so obviously fake. If an official store ever sold counterfeit goods, they’d at least make it harder to spot.” But Tyler really did have a screenshot from the official store. I sent it to Jessie. She replied, “What if the official store gift wasn’t meant for you?” Good point. What if Tyler bought one from an off-brand store and one from the official store, one for me and one for someone else? That would explain it. But no—Tyler would never do something so low, right? We’d been together for over a year. We were solid. He’d never betray me like that. But just then, I spotted a familiar figure in the crowd. It looked like Tyler. Wasn’t he supposed to be tutoring? What was he doing here?

I was about to go after him when Damon returned with an ice cream cone. “What’s up?” he asked, noticing my expression. “I thought I saw a friend.” But in the blink of an eye, that familiar figure vanished. I licked my ice cream, then texted Tyler: “Where are you?” It took him half an hour to reply: “I’m tutoring.” Almost as if to prove it, he sent a picture of a kid bent over their homework. “Miss me already? I’ll come find you when I’m done, okay?” Once a seed of doubt is planted, it takes root quickly. I wanted to video call him right then. But with Damon next to me, I held off. After turning down yet another girl who asked for his number, Damon finally turned to me. “You don’t seem too happy, Harper.” “Mhm.” “No Valentine’s gift?” he guessed. I shook my head. Damon didn’t care what I was thinking, though, and snapped his fingers. Out of nowhere, a whole bunch of guys dressed like wannabe “princes” surrounded me. “Pick one, or a few, and they’ll keep you entertained.” This was classic Damon—wild and unpredictable. I mean, how was I supposed to handle ten of them? “Hey, Damon, I…” He gasped in mock surprise, “What?! You want all of them?” “When did I say that?!” He shrugged. “Fine, fine, only kids choose. We’ll take them all!” I rolled my eyes. “Let’s just go grab dinner, Damon,” I said, trying to keep my irritation in check. The guys he brought in were attractive, sure, but I had a boyfriend. It didn’t feel right. That was, until Jessie texted me again. Jessie: “Harper, aren’t you with Tyler today?” Me: “Nope. He’s tutoring. I’m out with Damon.” But then she sent me a photo. It was Tyler and Chelsea at the claw machine in the same amusement park. The amusement park we were currently in. And this place isn’t cheap—at most places, tokens are a dollar each, but here, they’re ten. Every round at the machine costs twenty. Chelsea’s arms were full of stuffed animals. Knowing Tyler’s skills, it’d probably taken him at least ten tries to win each one. So he’s spending hundreds on claw machines for Chelsea, while he bought me a $100 knock-off YSL gift set? Jessie: “Do you want me to keep an eye on them? I can stay back.” Me: “Don’t worry about it, Jessie. I’ll handle it myself.” I’d had enough. I called Tyler, and after four unanswered calls, he finally picked up on the fifth. “Harper, what are you doing? I’m tutoring, and the kid’s parents are sitting right here!” he said, sounding irritated. I took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “Video call me.” “I’m busy, Harper. Do you know how tiring tutoring is? Can you please not be so unreasonable?” His frustration was obvious. He wasn’t even trying to hide his irritation anymore. “So, am I the one being unreasonable, or are you feeling guilty about something?” I asked, my voice cool. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m working hard for our future, and here you are questioning me?” Our future? His idea of a future meant cozying up to a wealthy girl like Chelsea? Not on my watch. I hung up, sending him the link to the off-brand gift set and the photo of him with Chelsea. I left one final message: “We’re done.” And then I blocked him across the board. How long had this been going on with Chelsea? And that YSL set—the real one was for her, wasn’t it? Chelsea, the so-called high-and-mighty rich girl who claims she hates secondhand and vintage. Isn’t it funny that she’d go for someone else’s boyfriend?

After dinner, Damon drove me back to campus. I’d barely made it a few steps when a bank notification came through. It was a transfer of fifty grand from Damon. Damon: “Sis, just a little spending money—retail therapy makes everything better, right?” I was still grinning at my phone when I heard a loud shout behind me. “Harper! Never thought you’d turn out to be such a gold digger!” It was Tyler. My smile vanished as I turned around, expression already set. I tried to walk away, but he grabbed my arm, refusing to let go. “I saw you getting out of that Maybach! Who the hell were you with today?” Was he seriously pulling this? Fine. He wanted a confrontation? I’d give him one. “You never went to tutor anyone today, did you?” He let out a slow breath. “No, I was with Chelsea. I figured if I made her happy, she’d let the whole watch thing slide.” I couldn’t believe this excuse. Did he really expect me to believe he was doing this “for me”? And on Valentine’s Day, of all days? Softening his tone, he tried again, “Harper, I did it for you.” I let out a laugh, cold and sharp. “For me? Did I ask you to pay her back for that watch? Did I ask you to waste money at the amusement park with her? Or to get her a bunch of claw machine toys?” He froze, speechless for a moment. I continued, “Tyler, the next time you try to pass the blame, do me a favor—find a better excuse.” I took a step back, putting space between us. But he reached for my hand, gazing at me like he thought he could sweet-talk his way out of this. “Harper, I care about you.” Now, I felt nothing but disgust. “I just…look, I’ll be a senior soon. And I need to start getting serious about finding a good internship.” Right. And Chelsea’s family ran a business. I understood exactly what he was getting at. “Oh, Harper, you know what they say: a relationship without financial stability is just like sand—it blows away with the first breeze. I’m only trying to build a better life for us.” I almost burst out laughing. Tyler Young, quoting The Big Dream like he thought he’d get brownie points for it. “Cut the crap, Tyler. Just admit you’re after the easy route. Using ‘a better life’ as your excuse is nothing but a smokescreen to hide your own insecurity and selfishness.” “Us? No way. You can keep your knock-off Valentine’s Day gift set. I’ll give it back tomorrow,” I said. “My parents gave me enough real things—I don’t need some dollar-store mascara. I mean, the cheap junk might just give me a rash.” “I showed you the receipt! Who told you it was a knock-off, anyway? That ‘influencer’ roommate of yours? She’s just jealous!” His voice was rising, his face twisting with anger in a way I’d never seen before. You know the saying: “The louder the voice, the weaker the argument”? That was him, in a nutshell. Tyler assumed I couldn’t tell the difference between real and fake brands, and that I’d just believe whatever he said. As if Jessie would be jealous over a fake $100 set. She received PR packages from brands all the time. What would she need to envy? “The real set—the one you bought at the flagship store—you gave it to Chelsea, right? Buying knock-offs and passing them off as high-end? That’s some impressive penny-pinching.” Tyler finally snapped. “Once you give a gift, there’s no taking it back!” I smirked. “Oh, perfect. Then I’ll toss it in the trash.” “Transfer me back the $138!” Was he serious? Sure, it was a hundred bucks, something I’d normally never think twice about. But this wasn’t about the money—it was about not putting up with his nonsense. I scoffed, “Wait—did you forget to buy shipping insurance on it?” He froze. Of course, he had. “Tell you what—I’ll let Jessie return it tomorrow. I’m not sending you a dime.” He pointed a finger in my face, furious. “Harper, you’re just a greedy, materialistic user! Cheap and pathetic!” Oh, so he wasn’t broke—he just thought I wasn’t worth spending anything decent on. I looked down at myself. A custom bag worth over $30K, a pair of shoes that ran close to nine…my outfit alone could cover a down payment on a house in some cities. And he thought I wasn’t “worth it”? “You couldn’t even shine Chelsea’s shoes!” he spat, and for a second, my throat went tight with tears. This was how he really saw me—as a discount option. Staying there any longer, I’d only embarrass myself. I turned and walked away. But even as I tried to leave, he wouldn’t stop. “Harper! Nobody else will treat you like I did! Everyone else just wants to mess around with you! You think you’ll find someone who actually cares?” “Forget ever seeing me again! Chelsea’s already agreed to be with me! You’ll come crying back, just watch!” I sped up, mortified. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be shouting. I might be embarrassed, but not as much as he should have been.

Heartbreak? That’s what shopping sprees are for. Damon really got it—retail therapy was the cure. Afterward, I headed back to the dorms, arms full of bags, and handed out gifts to my roommates. Jessie was holding a brand-new Dior bag, eyes wide. “Harper, where did you hit the jackpot?” I just smiled and kept quiet. Jessie was seriously loyal. The second she heard about Tyler’s betrayal, she made a video about it, telling her followers every ridiculous detail. She left out the names but let her followers know she was a student at Westfield. Now, everyone was trying to piece together who this cheapskate was. Someone even brought it up on the Westfield Confessions Board. Tyler better lay low for a while, or someone would inevitably connect the dots. On Friday afternoon, I headed over to the student council meeting. As I reached the door, I heard voices already chatting inside. “Wonder how she got so much money to buy all those bags—her ex Tyler says she’s been playing both sides. She’s got a rich guy giving her gifts but won’t let go of ‘ol Tyler the up-and-coming success story either.” Only Tyler would say something like that. Referring to himself as a “rising star,” what a joke. “Even if she is getting bags from some rich dude, she wouldn’t flaunt it so obviously, right? I bet that bag’s fake…” “Yeah, exactly! She said she’d buy Chelsea a new watch after breaking her old one. That was a Cartier, not a cheap knock-off!” I was enjoying listening in when someone suddenly tapped my shoulder. Before I could react, they covered my mouth to stifle my yelp. I turned around—it was Logan, the student council president. He motioned for me to stay quiet, letting go of my mouth before standing by the door to eavesdrop with me. Wasn’t Logan usually all business and aloof? I never expected him to join me in something like this. The conversation inside didn’t seem to be going anywhere, though, and after a few minutes, Logan leaned in and whispered, “Had enough?” I nodded. He gestured for me to step aside, then pushed the door open and strode in. The room fell silent immediately. I waited a moment before following him inside. Chelsea’s friends, who shared her department, looked me up and down. I casually placed my brand-new Hermès bag on the table right next to Chelsea’s LV, making a clear statement. This wasn’t about competing; it was about cutting Chelsea down a peg. She couldn’t handle it. “Harper, can I see your bag?” she asked, forcing a smile. “Go ahead.” She inspected it thoroughly, practically needing a magnifying glass for every detail. Finally, she looked up and asked, “Where’d you get it? The details look surprisingly realistic.” The not-so-subtle implication was clear. “Oh, it’s authentic,” I replied, sipping my bubble tea. “I picked it up at the mall. But you—usually carrying LV and Chanel—how come you know so much about Hermès?” Who says I couldn’t throw some shade? Chelsea’s bags were all entry-level. The idea she could spot a fake Hermès was laughable. Her face turned red as she stammered, “My mom’s a big fan of Hermès.” “Oh, then it’s your mom who’d know what’s real—not you, right?” Her expression darkened. Seeing her at a loss for words, her friends jumped in to back her up. “If you can afford Hermès, Harper, why haven’t you paid Chelsea back for her watch? It’s been fixed for weeks. Are you hoping she’ll just forget about it?” “Yeah, Harper, don’t be generous with yourself and stingy with others.” Chelsea had never shown me the receipt for that repair. And right then, it all clicked. She wasn’t upset about the watch or looking to be reimbursed. She wanted to humiliate me. Who plays basketball wearing a pricey watch, anyway? She’d set the whole thing up to make me look bad. The thing is, I wasn’t the “broke student” she imagined. I could pay. “What’s the cost, Chelsea? I’ll send it over now,” I said, pulling out my phone. With a smug expression, she tilted her head. “$7431. But I’ll knock off a few bucks—just make it an even $7400.” I wasn’t about to let her act like she was doing me a favor. I intended to pay down to the last penny. But just as I began typing in my password, a hand covered my phone screen. “That won’t be necessary.”

Logan, who’d been busy setting up the projector, was now beside me. “According to the US Civil Code, Section 1176, anyone who participates in an activity with inherent risks isn’t entitled to claim damages for accidents caused by others during that activity,” he said calmly. “Unless there was intent or gross negligence involved, that is.” He continued, “A cracked watch face doesn’t amount to ‘gross negligence,’ and Harper had no intention of causing damage.” His voice was clear, each word sharp and precise. I was floored. This was a solution I’d never considered. Logan had been away at a competition the day of the game—how did he know so much about it? Chelsea hadn’t expected Logan to interject, and despite her nerves, she put up a front. “You weren’t even there! How would you know she didn’t do it on purpose?” she blurted. Logan didn’t so much as flinch. If anything, he looked amused. “Several New Media staff members were at the game, and some of them recorded it on video.” He held up a USB. “I’ve already downloaded the footage. If you’d like, I can play it for everyone.” Chelsea’s face turned ghostly pale. Logan didn’t hold back, adding, “If anyone acted on purpose, it would’ve been you, Chelsea, angling to bump into Harper.” The student council president wasn’t just logical—he was relentless. He finished with one last comment: “Before you try pulling stunts like this, Chelsea, you might want to brush up on the law.” The entire room erupted in whispers. “She really thought Harper would be an easy mark!” “I mean, Chelsea’s got money. Would she really do all this over a few thousand?” “Oh, come on—haven’t you heard? Tyler, Harper’s ex? He’s been hanging around Chelsea non-stop…” That hit the nail on the head. “People are saying that viral post about the world’s stingiest boyfriend? They think it’s Tyler! I mean, who does that? Buying legit gifts for the side chick and scamming his girlfriend with fakes? Guy’s a piece of work.” “I saw Jessie’s video about it too. I couldn’t stop laughing—he really thinks people are that dumb? He probably thought a knock-off would pass as the real deal!” “Those two can just stay together. Please, don’t let them drag anyone else down!” Chelsea’s face turned a dark shade of red. Her glare was cold enough to freeze a room, aimed straight at me like I was her sworn enemy. I simply looked back, unfazed. Finally, she muttered something about feeling unwell and bolted out of the room. Once she’d left, Logan turned to me, smiling faintly. “Doesn’t the air seem a bit fresher now?” I flashed him a thumbs-up.

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At Mr. Green’s 60th birthday party, my husband’s younger sister, who is well over 25, pressed her chest against him. What’s even stranger is that his family acted like it was perfectly normal. I thought I was overreacting… Until my father-in-law got drunk and let a secret slip. My husband, Michael, is what you’d call a “sister’s boy.” I realized this when we were still dating. At the time, Emily had just started her junior year in college and was coming home for summer break. Michael and I drove to the Bus Depot to pick her up. I wore a pair of high heels that were too tight, and halfway there, they rubbed the skin on my heels raw. Every step was agony. Michael held a bouquet of flowers meant for his sister, Emily. I didn’t have the heart to ask him to help me, so I just quietly complained, “Can we slow down? My feet hurt.” Michael patted my head but didn’t slow down. Finally, we saw Emily. She was wheeling a pink suitcase and wearing a short skirt. The second she spotted Michael, she squealed like a happy little bird and ran straight into his arms. Michael didn’t hesitate either—he grabbed her thighs and spun her around a few times, right there in public. My face turned dark immediately. Noticing my reaction, Michael gently put Emily down and reached out to hold my hand. “Emily, this is your sister-in-law. Say hi!” “Hi, sis!” Emily chirped sweetly. A few steps later, Emily started whining that her feet hurt. Michael glanced at me cautiously, while Emily gave me a pitiful look. What could I say in that situation? Michael handed me the flowers, whispered, “You’re amazing, babe,” and then picked Emily up on his back. They walked ahead of me while I limped behind, trying to ignore the pain. That day, the thought of breaking up with him crossed my mind more times than I could count. But in the end, I couldn’t let go of five years of love. Besides, Michael came from a good family, was handsome, and had a stable job. If it weren’t for his obsession with his sister, he was practically perfect. A little later, I agreed to marry him. In our second year of marriage, we had a beautiful son, Andy. After giving birth, my body wasn’t the same, but Michael still loved me like before. Just when I thought life would continue peacefully, everything changed at Mr. Green’s 60th birthday party. The revelation hit me like a bolt of lightning. Before that, Emily had gotten drunk and passed out in Michael’s arms. Her chest was pressed right against his thigh. I shot Michael a look, but he ignored me. Instead, he called a server over for a damp towel and carefully wiped Emily’s face and neck. Emily let out a soft moan and wrapped her arms around Michael’s, clinging to him in the most intimate way. Sensing my discomfort, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Green, casually placed a shrimp in my bowl and said, “They’ve been close like this since they were kids. Don’t let it bother you. Come on, eat up!” I forced a nod, chewing on the shrimp that tasted like nothing. As the drinks flowed, Mr. Green stood up with his glass and announced, “Today isn’t just my birthday. I also have some great news! My daughter, Emily, has been hired by the local TV station! We all know how hard it is to get into the TV station—they only pick the very best!” Everyone clapped and congratulated her. Mr. Green, a bit unsteady, swayed slightly and had to be supported by someone next to him. “Emily may not be our biological child,” he continued, “but in terms of smarts and determination, she’s just like a true Green!” Mrs. Green gave me a strange look and quickly stood up to cut him off. Michael gently pushed Emily off his lap and glanced at me, finally realizing what was happening. Around us, the chatter was a blur. My head was buzzing like a swarm of flies. Before, I could convince myself that their closeness was just due to blood ties. But now? There was no way I could believe that the relationship between Michael and Emily was purely that of a brother and sister. Especially since just the night before, when our son had a 104°F fever from tonsillitis, Michael left him to take Emily home after she got drunk. He didn’t come back all night.

That night, when I heard Andy crying, I rushed barefoot into his room and saw his flushed little face, his voice hoarse. The thermometer read 104°F. I ran back to our room to wake up Michael, but he was sitting on the bed, on the phone. “Alright, stay where you are. I’m on my way,” he said. “Michael, Andy’s got a fever!” I told him. He hesitated. “Julia, could you take him to the hospital first? Emily got drunk, and she needs me to pick her up.” “She has plenty of friends. If worse comes to worst, call your parents.” Michael frowned, “They’re asleep, and she’s a girl, Julia. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. You go first, I’ll meet you there.” My temples throbbed with frustration, but I bit my tongue. I rushed Andy to the emergency room, where the doctor diagnosed tonsillitis. A single shot and the fever would subside. I finally breathed a sigh of relief. But Andy hadn’t eaten much dinner, and the medication upset his stomach. He vomited suddenly, and I didn’t have anything on hand to catch it, so I used my bare hands to avoid messing up the hospital floor. The pungent smell was overwhelming, and I felt tears well up. Thankfully, a woman nearby handed me a plastic bag. Andy’s little face was red with discomfort, and he held my hand, whispering, “Mommy, I’m sorry.” My heart ached as I replied, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Andy. You were so brave.” I put on a strong face for Andy, but one question from that woman broke me down inside: “Where’s your husband? Why are you here alone?” That night, I sat by Andy’s bedside and didn’t close my eyes for a second. Michael came home at five in the morning, holding my favorite crab-stuffed pastries. He apologized, massaged my feet, brought me water, and begged me to rest. I was exhausted, and seeing how sincere he seemed, I let it go. But that incident left a knot in my heart that never truly untied. It eventually became the spark that led to our divorce. After leaving Mr. Green’s birthday party, I walked straight to the parking lot, with Michael chasing after me, blocking the car door. “Are you seriously leaving during such an important event?” he asked. “Come on, stop being dramatic. Let’s go back.” I jerked my hand away. “Aren’t you going to explain what’s going on with you and Emily?” Michael sighed. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I just didn’t want anyone to misunderstand and have it affect Emily.” I laughed bitterly, “And that’s it? Michael, do you really think I’m that stupid? Do you expect me to believe that what you two have is just sibling love?” His face twisted in disbelief. “Julia, your mind is in the gutter!” Before I could respond, Mrs. Green appeared, hearing our argument, and immediately pointed at me. “You, of all people, should know better. How could you say something like that?” I watched them stand united against me, feeling a coldness settle in my chest. Without another word, I opened the car door. As I got in, I heard Mrs. Green muttering, “What kind of person did you marry? So disrespectful!” I held back the burning anger and drove away. The next day, I packed up my things, took Andy, and went back to my parents’ house. My mom tried to talk me down. “So what if they aren’t blood-related? They didn’t do anything inappropriate. Marriage means you have to turn a blind eye to some things.” “Mom, you know me. I can’t ignore something like this.” My dad slammed down his cup. “There’s never been a divorce in the Davis family. If you go through with this, don’t come back!” I slammed the door, sinking to the floor as the weight of everything hit me. I thought my parents’ home would be my safe haven. Instead, they were on Michael’s side.

During this time, Michael kept calling, but I ignored him. I blocked him on Instagram and every other social platform he might reach me on. Andy would occasionally ask, “Why isn’t Dad with us?” I would swallow my sadness and reply, “Daddy’s working hard. He’ll come see you soon.” Andy would nod, gripping my hand, “Mom, don’t be mad at Dad. I want us all to be happy together.” Tears filled my eyes. Staring at Andy’s innocent face, my resolve to divorce began to waver. That night, I tried to convince myself to move on, but every time I closed my eyes, the memories I couldn’t let go of flooded back— Emily sitting on Michael’s lap, playing video games. Michael using his chopsticks to hand-feed Emily pieces of fish. Emily throwing herself into his arms every time she won a game. And every time they were in the same room, they sat together, laughing and chatting, completely ignoring me. If they could behave like that in front of me, I couldn’t imagine what went on behind closed doors. It wasn’t stubbornness on my part—it was impossible to ignore. A few days later, I was surprised when Michael showed up at my door with Emily to apologize. That morning, I had dropped Andy off at Maple Grove Daycare and swung by Fisherman’s Wharf to pick up a few pounds of clams—my dad’s favorite. He’d been ignoring me for days, and as his daughter, I knew I had to make things right. My dad was a traditional man, strict but with a good heart. He had never once mistreated my mom in all their years of marriage. Even though he said some hurtful things, Mom told me he had privately called Michael and given him a good scolding. When I got home, the house was empty. I had just started soaking the clams when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see Michael, unshaven and haggard, with a sulky Emily standing behind him. “Julia, I brought Emily to apologize.” “I overreacted that day.” “I didn’t realize how uncomfortable our behavior made you. I promise, there’s nothing between us other than sibling love.” Then he pulled Emily forward. She didn’t look happy, but eventually muttered, “I’m sorry, sis. My brother and I have always been close like this. If anything was off, he wouldn’t have married you, right?” She shot Michael a knowing glance as she spoke. This wasn’t an apology—it was a taunt. I smirked, ready to fire back, but Michael’s face darkened. “Emily, if you can’t apologize properly, keep quiet!” “Fine!” Emily’s eyes reddened as she glared at both of us. “I hope you two live happily ever after!” Then she stomped away in her heels. “Aren’t you going to chase after her?” I sneered. Michael shook his head. “She’s spoiled from how we raised her, like a little princess. Don’t let it bother you. I swear, I’ll never do anything to hurt you again.” I softened and packed up my things to return home with Michael. A week later, Andy was overjoyed to see his dad again, clinging to Michael like he would never let go. Watching them together, my heart felt heavy. I had never asked Andy to choose between us, but at that moment, I really wanted to know—if Michael and I divorced, who would he pick? For a long time after that, Michael was more attentive than ever before. He woke up early to buy groceries, canceled every social event, and spent all his time at home with Andy and me. There were even little surprises—flowers, cakes, jewelry. He even remembered my period and had warm tea ready in advance. It felt like we had gone back to our early dating days. I could tell he was trying to make up for his mistakes. Even though the hurt lingered, I decided to bury it for now and give our marriage another try. But everything changed the week my grandmother passed away. I went back to my hometown with my mom for the funeral. There was a virus outbreak in my hometown, and since Andy was still so young, I couldn’t bring him along.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “294935”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #现实主义Realistic #魔幻Magic #擦边Steamy #浪漫Romance #励志Inspiring #重生Reborn #校园School