“Mia madre è una maiale grassa e imponente.” Outside the kindergarten, my six-year-old son introduced me to the other kids in Italian. The kids didn’t understand, they just laughed along. I understood, because every single sound in that sentence was something I had taught him. I stood outside the school gate, seven months pregnant, my heart aching. Orwell saw me, and the smile instantly vanished from his face. I reached out for his backpack. But he pulled it behind him, wrinkling his nose. “Mom, you smell.” I froze. It’s easy to sweat in the late stages of pregnancy, but I’d definitely changed before leaving. A child nearby asked him, “Is that your mom?” Orwell didn’t answer right away. After a few seconds, he looked down and mumbled, “Yeah.” He said it reluctantly, as if admitting I was his mom was something shameful. I looked at him. “Who taught you that Italian phrase just now?” His eyes flickered. “What Italian phrase?” “You said I was like a fat pig.” He lowered his head, kicking at the leaves on the ground, saying nothing. I asked again, “Did Dad say it?” Orwell pursed his lips. “Everyone says that. Eleanor said you’re getting less like your old self since you got pregnant with my sister.” My belly gave a gentle kick. I leaned against the railing beside me. Suddenly, the burning sensation in my palm didn’t hurt as much. What truly hurt was that I had personally taught him to speak. But after he learned, the first thing he learned was how to despise me.
My name is Chloe. Before I got married, I was an Italian translator. The year Fisher first started his company, he couldn’t even write a proper business email. The first time we met an Italian client, everything from how to greet them, how to quote prices, to how to write the after-sales terms – I guided him through every single step. That night, the client changed their requirements at the last minute, and Fisher paced anxiously in the living room. I sat at the computer, revising the proposal from scratch, then translating it sentence by sentence into Italian. At two in the morning, he was asleep on the sofa. I was still replying to emails for him. Later, when the deal was signed, he got drunk at dinner and slapped his chest, saying, “Good thing I kept my cool.” I just smiled back then. Now that I think about it, he didn’t forget my contribution. He just never planned to credit me for it. Later, the company grew bigger and bigger. Fisher bought a new car, moved into a mansion, and everyone around him called him Mr. Fisher. After I got pregnant with Orwell, Eleanor, my mother-in-law, advised me to quit my job. “The first three years of a child’s life are crucial. Can you really trust strangers to raise them?” Fisher also said, “You just stay home and rest for a few years. I’ll make the money.” I believed him. And that ‘rest’ lasted for six years. In those six years, I raised Orwell from a crying infant into a bright, accomplished child. He played piano, played chess, and spoke foreign languages. His kindergarten teachers praised his intelligence, and relatives praised Fisher for his parenting. Eleanor always grinned from ear to ear, “Our family’s kids are just different.” No one ever mentioned me. Occasionally someone would ask, “Wasn’t Chloe a translator before?” Eleanor would cut in, “She’s got it good now, staying home with the kids. How hard can that be?” I used to smile, thinking there was no need to be petty with family. Until today, when Orwell used the Italian I taught him to insult me. He reached out again, “Mom, I want ice cream.” Before, when he reached out, I would immediately take his backpack, water bottle, and jacket, then ask him if he’d been good at school today. Today, I didn’t move. “No ice cream today.” He looked up at me. “Why?” “Because you just humiliated me.” He looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected me to say that. “But I didn’t say it in English.” I looked at him. “Using a different language doesn’t make it less hurtful.” His face flushed. “You’re mean. Eleanor says you’re always complaining since you got pregnant with my sister.” I opened the car door. “Get in.” He stood still. Before, when he did this, I would crouch down and coax him. Today, I just put his backpack in the car. “If you don’t get in, you can walk home.” Orwell froze. He looked at me as if it was the first time he’d ever heard me say something like that. Three seconds later, he cried. Loudly. Many parents at the school gate looked our way. I didn’t comfort him; I waited for him to cry. Eventually, he got tired of crying and climbed into the backseat. Halfway home, he deliberately unscrewed his water bottle cap, spilling water all over. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You clean it up when we get home.” He said, “This is Dad’s car.” I said, “You’re the one who dirtied it.” He widened his eyes. “You never used to be like this.” The traffic light ahead turned red, and I hit the brakes. “I never knew you all would be like this, either.”
Back home, Eleanor was watching TV in the living room. Orwell immediately ran to complain. “Eleanor, Mom wouldn’t let me have ice cream, and she told me to clean the car!” Eleanor immediately put down the remote. “Chloe, why are you so impatient just because you’re pregnant? What’s wrong with Orwell wanting some ice cream?” I changed my shoes and placed my prenatal check-up book on the entryway cabinet. “He insulted me at the kindergarten gate today.” Eleanor frowned. “What could he have said to insult you?” I looked at her. “He said I was like a fat pig.” Her face stiffened, just for a moment. But I saw it. She knew. At least, she’d heard similar words before. Sure enough, the next second, she started to cover it up. “He’s just a kid, what does he know? He must have learned it from a cartoon.” “He said Fisher said it.” Eleanor’s face instantly darkened. “Don’t blame everything on Fisher. He’s so busy at work every day, when would he have time to teach the kid stuff like that?” I asked, “Then what about Mia?” The living room fell silent, the TV still playing laughter. None of us spoke. Mia, Fisher’s administrative assistant. Twenty-six years old, always wearing white dresses, speaking softly. Last month, she came to the house to deliver documents and brought Orwell a LEGO set. Orwell was thrilled all evening. At the time, I even laughed and said, “You’re so good with kids.” Now that I think about it, she really was good at charming people. A LEGO set and a few sweet words were enough to make a six-year-old remember her kindness. Meanwhile, all the sleepless nights I’d pulled, the meals I’d cooked, the hospital visits I’d made, the classes I’d attended – all of it just became “what a mother is supposed to do.” Orwell ran to grab the remote. “Eleanor, I want to watch cartoons.” I said, “No cartoons today.” Eleanor shielded him. “He’s been at school all day, what’s wrong with him relaxing a bit?” I took the remote. “He humiliated me today, so no cartoons.” Eleanor got agitated. “Why are you arguing with a six-year-old?” I looked at her. “When you were teaching him to look down on me, why didn’t you remember he was only six?” Her face turned ugly. “Don’t spread lies.” I ignored her. I went into the kitchen and cooked myself a bowl of pasta. Only one bowl. Eleanor stood at the doorway. “What’s Orwell eating tonight?” “You make him something.” She looked like she didn’t understand. “Didn’t you already cook?” “I only cooked for myself.” “Chloe, what do you mean?” I brought the pasta out and sat at the dining table. “It means that from today on, whoever feels sorry for him can cook for him.” Orwell sat on the sofa, staring at me, bewildered. I never used to let him go hungry. Even if he’d just thrown a tantrum at me, broken a knife or fork, I’d turn around and go into the kitchen to make him pudding, pan-fry a steak, or cut fruit. Today, I didn’t. Eleanor angrily went into the kitchen and started clanking pots. Ten minutes later, she brought out a plate of burnt steak. Orwell took a bite, frowning. “It tastes awful.” Eleanor’s face hardened. “Eat it anyway.” He looked at me. “Mom, I want your cooking.” I lowered my head and ate my pasta. “Not today.” His eyes reddened. “You don’t love me anymore.” That sentence used to work wonders on me. As soon as he asked if Mom didn’t love him anymore, I’d panic. I’d hug him, kiss him, and explain a hundred times that I loved him. Today, I just put down my knife and fork. “Love doesn’t mean you get to hurt me whenever you want.” He didn’t understand. But he knew, crying wouldn’t work this time.
Fisher returned at nine in the evening, carrying a paper bag. I recognized it at a glance; it was from the dessert shop Mia often bought from. Orwell rushed over. “Dad!” Fisher bent down to hug him, handing him the paper bag. “Mia got you this.” Orwell happily tore it open. Inside was a box of macarons. Eleanor smiled. “Mia is so thoughtful.” I sat on the sofa. “Fisher, we need to talk.” He paused while taking off his jacket. “About what?” “About what you’ve been saying about me in front of the kid.” Fisher glanced at Orwell. “What did Orwell say now?” I repeated the Italian phrase. His expression wasn’t shocked, just impatient at being exposed. “Chloe, can you just not be so sensitive right now?” I asked, “Did you say it or not?” He tugged at his tie. “Just joking around.” “Joking around with whom?” He didn’t speak. I answered for him. “Mia?” Eleanor immediately cut in. “Why are you bringing up Mia? She’s a good, decent girl, don’t think the worst of people.” I looked at her. “She’s so decent she buys Orwell desserts and teaches him to compare her to me?” Fisher frowned. “You’re getting more and more unpleasant.” I gave a small laugh. “I’m already like a pig, how much more unpleasant can I get?” Fisher was speechless. Orwell sat to the side, holding a macaron. He looked at me, then at his dad. Finally, he mumbled, “Mom, don’t argue.” I asked, “Why not?” He said, “Dad works really hard to earn money.” A six-year-old wouldn’t randomly feel sorry for a dad who “works really hard to earn money.” Unless someone taught him that every day. I looked at Eleanor. She avoided my gaze. I suddenly understood that Orwell hadn’t turned out like this overnight. He had simply learned, word by word, the daily contempt that the adults in this house let slip. I stood up. “Fisher, let’s get a divorce.” The TV was still laughing, but no one in the living room responded. A few seconds later, Eleanor was the first to shriek, “Are you crazy?” Fisher stared at me. “Just because of one sentence from the kid?” I looked at him. “It’s not just one sentence.” That sentence was just the final straw. It was when I finally heard clearly how much badmouthing this family had been doing behind my back.
Fisher didn’t take the divorce seriously; he even chuckled. “Chloe, you’re pregnant now, your emotions are unstable. I won’t argue with you.” I nodded. “Then let’s talk when I’m stable.” He thought that was the end of it. The next morning, he still tossed his worn shirt into the laundry basket. “Iron the blue one for me this afternoon. I have a dinner engagement tonight.” I stood at the sink, brushing my teeth. “Iron it yourself.” He froze. “What?” I spat out my mouthwash. “I said, iron it yourself.” Fisher frowned. “Chloe, don’t take your anger out on our daily life.” I looked at him in the mirror. “The clothes are yours, the dinner is yours, your reputation is yours. How did it become my daily life?” His face darkened. “You’re home all day, and you can’t even do this much?” I put my toothbrush back in the cup. “I’m home, but I’m not your household assistant.” He stared at me for a long time, then sneered. “Fine, you win.” After that day, the house quickly descended into chaos. Fisher couldn’t find his socks. Eleanor forgot to pack Orwell’s water bottle. No one set up Orwell’s online class equipment beforehand, and the teacher called his name for ages, but his microphone was still off. Who filled the water bottle? Who matched the socks? Who set up the equipment before class? No one asked. They just thought that’s how things were supposed to be. At 7:40 PM, Orwell called me from his room. “Mom, Italian class is about to start!” I walked to the door. “Not accompanying you today.” He froze. “Why?” “You’ll go by yourself from now on.” “I can’t!” I said, “You can insult people in Italian, so you must be learning well.” His face instantly flushed. “I don’t want to go by myself! The teacher said a parent has to be there!” “Then have your dad go.” Orwell opened his mouth. He knew his dad wouldn’t go. Fisher was busy, and Eleanor didn’t speak a foreign language. The only person in the house who could follow his entire lesson was me. Before, when he didn’t study well, I was more anxious than he was. I’d message the teacher, take notes, record the class afterwards, and organize his mistakes. He just had to sit there and wait for me to spoon-feed him the knowledge. Now that I wasn’t spoon-feeding him, he panicked. “Mom, I won’t say bad things about you anymore, okay? Please come to class with me?” I looked at him. “An apology isn’t meant to buy a service.” He didn’t understand the words. But he understood that I wouldn’t be there. That evening, the teacher called me. “Chloe, Orwell wasn’t doing very well today.” I said, “For future academic matters, please contact his father directly.” Five minutes later, Fisher’s phone rang. He was in his study on a video call. I heard him say in a hushed voice, “For things like the kid’s studies, just contact his mom.” The teacher must have said something, because Fisher looked my way. I sat on the sofa, slowly drinking water. He hung up, his tone harsh. “Chloe, do you have to drag the kid into this too?” I said, “The child isn’t just mine.” “But you always handled it before?” “So I was wrong before.” Fisher laughed in exasperation. “You’re just going to stop taking care of it now?” I put down my cup. “Yes.” He looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. Perhaps in his eyes, Chloe shouldn’t say “yes.” Chloe should explain, should feel wronged, should say, “That’s not what I meant.” But I didn’t want to explain anymore.
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