Three years in prison for Jackson. As I stepped out of the jail, he was celebrating his third wedding anniversary with our son, Barry Gellar, and his beloved, Rebecca Perez. On the giant screen, Barry passionately kissed Rebecca, proclaiming, “I’m proud to have such a great mom.” I turned to Jackson, questioning, “If Rebecca’s his mom, then what am I?” Jackson accused me of being jealous, “What’s a little sacrifice for our son?” Suddenly, I felt utterly tired. As I handed him the divorce papers, Jackson asked with a frown, “Is this really about that little thing?” “Yes, it is. I don’t want you or our son anymore!” … On the day I stepped out of prison, I tossed aside everything I had—except for a single photograph of our little family from three years ago. As I finally walked through those heavy doors, the long-awaited sunlight kissed my face, and the air felt fresh and full of life. I stood there, soaking it all in, yet the hours stretched on from morning to evening without a sign of Jackson. When the prison guard finished their shift and took me to the city, she tried to reassure me, “You’ll be okay. Your family might take some time to adjust, but it’ll get better.” I nodded, the city’s neon lights blinding me as I tilted my head skyward to glance at the huge screen across the river. “Three, two, one…” The countdown echoed in my ears as familiar faces filled the screen. There was Jackson standing beside Rebecca, my son Barry grasping Rebecca’s hand tightly. A reporter below shouted, “Ms. Perez, you just won the Ruby Design Awards Gold Medal! What do you have to say?” With composure and grace, Rebecca faced the camera, her smile radiant. “I’m thrilled! And I must thank my wonderful husband and son.” The reporter nodded appreciatively, saying, “Ms. Perez is indeed a fantastic wife and mother! We’d love to hear from your family!” Barry jumped at the chance, grabbing the microphone. “Let me speak! I’m so proud to have such an amazing mom!” The camera shifted to Jackson. “And how about you, sir? Your actions say more than any words could!” A stir of excitement rippled through the crowd as someone jovially shouted, “Hey, isn’t today your three-year anniversary?” “Give her a kiss, give her a kiss!” came the chant. Amidst the cheers, I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. Jackson seemed hesitant at first, but Rebecca leaned in, clearly unbothered by the attention. Barry gave Jackson a playful push, practically forcing him into Rebecca’s arms for a passionate kiss. I thought, “My brave boy—what a wingman! Deep inside, he must surely be thinking even more highly of his new mom, right?” Three years is neither a short nor a long time—it felt long enough that my longing for them made the days drag on like years but short enough that hopes for the future slipped right through my fingers like grains of sand. I had dreamt countless times of the moment we would embrace again, but the reality was quite different—it was them sharing that joy, not us. After three years behind bars, my family was gone. In this world, I felt like an unwanted ghost. With nowhere left to go, I returned to my grandfather Morton Aniston’s manor. The room was filled with heavy, dusty old furniture, the sun casting a dim light on everything. Morton’s memorial photo stood in a place of honor, looking over me with that ever-stern expression. I crouched before it, overcome with grief. Morton had never approved of Jackson. He once said that his little princess didn’t deserve to suffer alongside another man in tough times. We had fought bitterly about it. I told him that even if he looked down on Jackson, Jackson would soar to great heights. Jackson had that stubborn determination, and he did make something of himself. Then, just as he reached the pinnacle of his career, he was wrongfully accused of contract fraud. I took the fall for him, convinced that as long as Jackson was out there, he’d find a way to clear my name. But after I was incarcerated, he couldn’t find the evidence, and our son kept growing up without either of us. I didn’t know how long I sobbed before sleep eventually claimed me. When I woke again, there they were—Jackson and Barry—standing behind me. Seeing me on the floor, Jackson quickly shed his suit jacket and placed it over my shoulders. His voice held a note of reproach. “We searched all night, and you weren’t home. What are you doing here?” Confused, I lifted my gaze. “Where is my home?” The last time I had seen Jackson was a year ago during a visit. He had stopped coming, saying work was keeping him tied up with too many responsibilities. Barry was staring around at the Aniston manor; his nose crinkled in distaste. “What is this place? It’s filthy!” His gaze landed on me, suspicion in his eyes as he stepped back. “Dad, who is this old lady?”
The last time Jackson brought our son to see me, Barry was just a year old—too young to remember anything. Now, at three, he looked at me as if I were a stranger. Prison didn’t have beauty salons or yoga studios. I managed to keep my body in basic shape, but without proper skincare and with the prison’s enforced hairstyle, I had aged more than I cared to admit. “Barry, say ‘Mommy,’” Jackson urged softly. He shrugged off Jackson’s hand, his face scrunched up in defiance. “She’s not my mom! My mom is Rebecca! The famous designer! This woman doesn’t even wear designer clothes and has no style at all!” Jackson helped me to my feet, but my legs felt numb, and I stumbled right into his arms. Jackson was caught off guard, but his eyes lit up with joy. He stroked my hair, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. “Emilia, prison has certainly softened you.” My body tensed at his words. I mused, “Softened? Is that what he likes gentle women?” But I remembered how Jackson once said he loved my fierce spirit. That fierceness had always been reserved just for him. I never let him stay late at the office—too many late nights would hurt his liver. I forbade him from drinking with clients—it would wreck his stomach. I wouldn’t allow him to revise proposals endlessly—it would strain his eyes. And I definitely wouldn’t let him smoke to fit in with the crowd—it would damage his lungs. Yet, I had forgotten to tell him the one thing I couldn’t stand: him loving someone else because that would break my heart. I pushed Jackson away, quickly lowering my gaze. He misinterpreted my actions as shyness, his smile widening. I was just heartbroken, letting the tears spill silently onto the floor. But I swore this would be the last tear I shed for him. “Shall we go home?” he asked, his voice hopeful. “No, I’ll clean this place up and stay here,” I replied lightly, my meaning crystal clear. Barry, bored and restless, tugged on Jackson’s arm, eager to leave. “Dad, we promised Mom we’d go to the aquarium today to see the sea lions!” I remembered the time when Barry was still in my belly, feeling him kick like a little sea lion. I had told Jackson that once he was born and grown up, we’d take a family trip to the aquarium. Jackson frowned at Barry’s words. “Barry, I’ve told you, this is your mom.” “I don’t want to hear it! She’s not! I only want Rebecca as my mom!” With that, Barry bolted outside. As we rushed after him, the screech of tires echoed, and Barry fell to the ground, crying and clutching his face. “Barry!” In an instant, I dashed toward him, my heart aching at the sight of his scraped knee. But Barry pushed me away with surprising force. I was taken aback—what kind of hatred could a three-year-old muster to shove me like that? His cries grew louder, more desperate. “I want my mom! I want my mom!” Jackson turned away from me, scooping Barry into his arms to comfort him. “Don’t worry. Daddy will take you to find Mommy. We’ll go find Mommy.” At that moment, my mind was a whirlwind. The son I had carried for nine months, the one I had dreamt about day and night, didn’t even recognize me as his mother. It tore at my heart. I mused, “But then again, he is just a child. What does he truly understand? Have I been absent for so long that he has come to see someone else as his mom?” Guilt washed over me. Feeling overwhelmed, I reached out and took Barry from Jackson’s arms. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. Mommy will take you to the hospital, okay? It won’t hurt anymore. I’m sorry, baby.” Barry’s tiny fists pounded against my face, and I felt nothing but numbness. He yanked at my hair with all his strength, shaking my head violently. “I hate you! I hate you! It’s your fault I lost my mommy! Why don’t you just die? Just die!” I looked into Barry’s eyes, and there was no trace of affection—just pure resentment. My feet felt like they were stuck in concrete, frozen in place. Jackson took Barry back, soothing him. “Daddy will take you to find Mommy.” But he wasn’t talking about me. I could no longer hold back my emotions. I grabbed Jackson almost frantically. “If Rebecca is his mom, then what am I?” Jackson’s eyes darkened with anger, tinged with disappointment. “Emilia, what’s the big deal? What’s a little sacrifice for our son?”
Jackson took my hand and gently ushered me into the car, his voice calm but strained, as if he were trying to keep his frustration in check. “Emilia, it’s a lot for him to take in right now. Let’s give it some time, okay?” After a quick check at the hospital revealed Barry was fine, we headed back to their villa. I had some things I needed to collect. At the entrance, Rebecca was anxiously waiting. The moment Barry stepped out of the car, he ran straight to her. She knelt down, concern etched on her face as she examined his injuries, tears welling up in her eyes. “How did this happen? Does it hurt?” Barry wiped away her tears and cupped her face, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I’m okay, Mommy. Don’t cry. I want to sleep with you.” He was being so sweet and affectionate, charming Rebecca as he leaned into her. My heart twisted at the sight. My son was so polite and caring, just as I had always hoped he would be. Rebecca stood up and took the items from Jackson’s hands, effortlessly helping him out of his suit jacket, as if she had done this a thousand times before. “Amanda, fetch the stomach-soothing soup and Barry’s milk,” she said, her tone authoritative, as if she were the head of the household. While they basked in their little family moment, I slipped away to the study, searching for my design sketches. After rummaging through drawers and files, I came up empty. Then it hit me. I quickly booted up the computer and searched for “Rebecca’s designs.” One by one, my sketches appeared on the screen, each one an echo of my creativity. In the three years since I’d been locked away, Rebecca had built her career on my stolen work, becoming a renowned designer in the process. I marched downstairs to confront her. “Rebecca, you stole my sketches, didn’t you?” Her gaze darted away, and she forced a sheepish smile before shifting her eyes to Jackson. I didn’t understand what that meant until he spoke up, “I gave them to Rebecca.” His calm delivery of those words felt like a punch to the gut, and there wasn’t a hint of remorse on his face. “Emilia, those sketches are useless in your hands,” I insisted, my voice rising. “Useless? Why would you say that?” My heart ached at the thought of my hard work being dismissed. Jackson exhaled sharply, reaching out as if to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. I instinctively brushed his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” He knew better than anyone how passionate I was about jewelry design. Each sketch was a piece of my soul, crafted after countless sleepless nights and bursts of inspiration. If it weren’t for the time I spent in prison to cover for him, I’d be at the pinnacle of the design world by now. “Emilia, face the facts. Who’s going to celebrate a criminal as a designer?” he said, his voice laced with a mix of empathy and hard truth. I had traced Jackson’s face with my fingers countless times in prison, yet now, I barely recognized him. “And what about you? Isn’t stealing my designs just as criminal? I want a public apology from you, a joint statement admitting you took my sketches, or I’ll go public myself.” Jackson grasped my hand, trying to pull me back from the brink. “Come on, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Those sketches don’t have names on them. Anyone can use them. Plus, can you really bear to let people know your son’s mother is a convict? Have you thought about his future? “Tomorrow, I’ll ask Amanda to leave. You can stay home and take care of things. You can always be Barry’s mom at home, right?” “What about outside?” I shot back. Jackson stood there, visibly disappointed, his eyes downcast. “Emilia, does the outside world really matter that much? I’m not the same Jackson anymore. Our son needs a resume he can be proud of.” So Barry’s resume hinged on having a CEO dad and a renowned designer mother. Once one person had been in prison, they expected him to live in the shadows forever. I forced a wry smile. I felt a mix of sorrow and fury well up inside me, leaving me speechless. I mused, “Who is truly fixated on appearances here?” Rebecca walked over to Jackson and spoke softly, “Maybe I should just head out.” “No need for that,” Jackson and I replied simultaneously, the absurdity of our shared response hanging in the air. “I’m leaving,” I declared, turning on my heel. Behind me, Rebecca sounded remorseful. “I’ll talk to Emilia. You two don’t need to fight because of me…” Jackson snapped, “That has nothing to do with you. Does she think she’s still the old Emilia? She can’t even see how far she’s fallen!” After I inserted my SIM card, my phone buzzed with the first incoming call. “Is this Ms. Aniston? Your grandfather has left you an inheritance.”
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