< Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Menu
A handmade lace hair accessory sat on the coffee table.
The style suggested it was from some small European country, probably belonging to Quilla Lewis’s daughter. I scoffed.
What a pair of devoted
father and
son; they even loved
Quilla
Lewis’s daughter.
William’s face crumpled when he heard my laughter.
He raised his voice.“It has to be fixed by tomorrow! Now, no,‘right now“!”
I coldly looked away.“I can’t.”
The handmade lace was incredibly intricate; moreover, there was a large hole in the hair accessory. Fixing it wouldn’t be a morning’s work.
And after being frozen for hours, my hands and feet ached even to bend, let alone thread a needle. William showed no empathy, his temper flaring.
“You’re so useless! You just don’t want to fix it! I promised my little sister Lily, you have to do it!” I poured myself a mug of hot water to warm my hands, my voice still icy.
“I’m your mother, not your maid.”
I rarely gave William the
Cold shoulder.
He inherited Bastian Hanson’s high IQ; I never worried about his studies.
My maternal love
Went
into raising him, his
his daily needs, clothing, shelter, everything.
I meticulously played the role of a good mother.
Yet, it wasn’t enough.
He took my efforts for granted, never showing gratitude, constantly picking and nitpicking, deliberately finding fault.
Even when I read him bedtime stories, he’d complain about my lack of emotion. Initially, I tolerated his eccentricities, understanding his high intelligence set him apart from other children. But now, I didn’t want to put up with it anymore.
William, flustered by my indifference, looked to Bastian Hanson, who just emerged from the kitchen. Bastian Hanson glanced over,
scolding William.“Don’t bother your mother. We’ll fix it tomorrow.”
There he was again, the perfect, caring husband.
He was wearing an apron, looking considerably softer.
He slipped a hot water bottle into my arms, touching my face.“Don’t get upset with the child.”
I avoided his touch, turning my head, saying calmly,
“I’m not angry.”
I was merely announcing I wouldn’t be his personal maid anymore.
His hand froze mid–air, retracting silently.
A tense silence hung, leaving Bastian Hanson feeling disoriented, a hint of disappointment flickering within him.
He’d never seen this level of coldness from me.
He expected tears, a breakdown, accusations, resentment–ending in quiet submission. I’d skipped all those steps,
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accepting everything calmly..
Just like I didn’t care.
“Let’s eat,”
he said, bringing a bowl of seafood porridge from the kitchen.
He placed the first bowl before me.
“Warm up your stomach. Don’t you love seafood porridge?”
I looked at the shrimp and scallops; premium ingredients, his signature dish.
But…
Bitterness welled up.”
Quilla Lewis loves seafood porridge best.”
Bastian Hanson’s hand stilled, then he shrugged.
“You’re sisters. Your tastes are probably similar.”
I laughed, a self–deprecating sound.
Menu
My tastes differed vastly from Quilla Lewis’s, but Bastian Hanson only remembered Quilla Lewis’s preferences.
His brain, a repository of experimental data, had a special file for everything about Quilla Lewis.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
smell, it’s disgusting, nauseating. It smells like sewage.”
“I hate seafood porridge. I hate the fishy good
He kept serving, whispering, “Seafood is nutritious, good for you.”
My grip on the spoon tightened.
That’s all he cared about.
before
to retreating
my room.
I
said nothing
more,
forcing down
bowl the entire
For eight years of marriage, we’d slept in separate rooms.
Bastian Hanson claimed he had insomnia and couldn’t tolerate noise.
I’d willingly moved to the guest room, and stayed there for eight years.
He simply didn’t want to share a bed with me.
Oh well.
At this point, I didn’t care.
The next morning, I was jolted awake by furious banging on my door.
Bad mom! “Mom!
My head throbbed.
Why didn’t
you
make
breakfast?
Are
you trying
to
starve
me?!”
I grabbed my phone; it was 8:00 AM.
William left for school at 7:30, so I usually woke up before 6:00 to prepare his breakfast and school supplies.
As I opened the door, William’s knee slammed into my kneecap.
A seven–year–old’s strength is considerable; the pain nearly buckled me.
I grabbed the doorframe to avoid falling.
“Where’s Dad?”
The living room was empty.
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Menu
William said matter–of–factly, “Dad’s working to support the family. He’s busy, unlike you, you do nothing all day, now you’re even too lazy to cook.”
Bastian Hanson “was busy.
As a top doctor at the city’s premier hospital, he worked relentlessly, often neglecting me and the child.
When William was sick, I was the one who took him to the hospital, running back and forth, exhausted and aching.
After he recovered, I fell ill.
Bastian Hanson’s response:“Next time, call the nanny.”
The word “nanny” was so casual.
He’d
never
SO
he
didn’t understand the pain
mother a
feels.
cared for William,
A nanny would be easier, yes, but a child’s illness, medication… how could you leave that to a stranger? Bastian Hanson never considered that; he only blamed me for not being tough enough. Now, William felt the
same.
“Aunt Quilla’s right, you’re not a good mom! You’re just a useless lazy bum!”
Children’s words cut the deepest.
I looked at
the child I’d carried for ten months, the life that emerged from my body.
I’d raised him, and he used to hug my neck, promising to protect me forever.
How did he become this?
I gave a wry smile.
“William, don’t you see I’m sick?”
He finally looked at me, but his brow remained furrowed.
showed no compassion, only displeasure.
“So useles
you get sick even now. You’re such a sickly woman, you don’t deserve to be He left, slamming the door.
my mother.”
Leaning against the doorframe, my strength drained away.
A wave of dizziness hit, and I sank to the floor.
The slam echoed in my ears.
Clutching my chest, I thought sadly: William,
I soon…
won’t be your
mother anymore.
