8

A week later, I picked Cherry up from school. We ate dinner outside and strolled home slowly. We stepped out of the elevator. “Mom,” Cherry gently squeezed my palm. I sensed her little gesture. Tommy, who was standing at the front door, heard the sound and quickly looked up, meeting my gaze. “Mom,” Tommy called out to me with a delighted look in his eyes. I didn't respond to him. He ran over, his eyes pleading, and called out again: “Mom, it's me, it's Tommy.” I held Cherry's hand with one hand and carried her small backpack with the other, shaking my head calmly. “I'm not your mom.” Tommy stubbornly refused to let us in: “Mom, you’re angry with me, aren’t you? I’ll be good from now on. I won’t fight with others anymore. Don’t abandon me.” “It’s all their fault. They said you don’t want me anymore, that I’m a child without a mother, so I hit them.” Looking at his tear-stained eyes, I stood on the opposite side for the first time. “They weren’t wrong. I do not want you anymore. Do