3

“Mom, don't cry, don't cry. You like the sea. Cherry will go with you after you are discharged from the hospital.” Cherry comforted me awkwardly. Hearing this, I touched my own face, feeling the cold tears on my fingertips. I forced a smile and nodded, thinking the matter was over. On the day of discharge, I took Cherry to complete the adoption procedures, then returned to the old house. The old house was quiet and deserted. Since my mother-in-law passed away two years ago, the housekeeper and Aunt Jane have retired and returned to their hometown. The family had hired several maids, but they all quit. In Bradley's words, no one is as attentive as I am. He persuaded me to resign from my company position and stay home as a full-time housewife. “Our son is still young. I don’t feel at ease having others take care of him. You should do it, Gina.” Tommy, our son, is just like his father—picky and demanding. Without patience, it’s impossible to endure. “Childhood only comes once; it’s the perfect time to build a bond. Otherwise, Tommy won’t be close to you when he grows up.” Unfortunately, Bradley was wrong this time. I spent time and effort accompanying my son, but I couldn’t compete with his childhood sweetheart Florence’s toys and compliments. Now, he not only refuses to be close to me but even resents my presence. As I was folding clothes, my gaze suddenly fell on the family photo frame, now cracked and damaged, and my heart ached. Last week, I cooked a feast of Tommy’s favorite dishes and bought him his beloved toy, hoping to mend our mother-son relationship. But when I went to pick him up from kindergarten that afternoon, the teacher told me he hadn’t come to school and had taken the day off. Fearing something had happened to him, I frantically contacted Bradley. “I took him out to play.” Bradley didn’t mention where they went or who else was with them. But I didn’t need to guess—I saw another version of the story in Florence’s social media post. They were wearing matching headbands, standing at the Disney entrance, happily giving the camera a thumbs-up. In that moment, all my worries turned into a big joke. I sat in the living room until ten o’clock at night. Father and son finally returned. Seeing my tired expression, my son Tommy’s first reaction was to get angry, upset that my calls had ruined their fun. He threw the toy I bought on the ground and stomped on it until it broke. Perhaps still not satisfied, he smashed the photo frame and shouted at me: “You’re a bad mom! Aunt Florence will play with me. I only want her to be my mom!” My blood felt like it had frozen, and a chill ran from my head to my toes. I reached out to hold his hand and explain, but my son turned away in disgust, avoiding my touch. He ran straight upstairs. Throughout this, Bradley only said, “Gina, don’t argue with the child.” He always acted like this, pretending to be a kind father. In raising the children, I always played the strict role while he played the lenient one.