Chapter 2

Scott's parents passed away when he was young, and when we met, he had nothing to his name.

My mom felt bad for him growing up without parents, so she doted on him like he was her own son.

After we got married, she became even more protective, always worried he'd ever feel mistreated.

She saw how hard he worked and wouldn't even let him wash a single dish.

When my mom was still around, Scott never even set foot in the kitchen.

Every time he came home from work, there was always a hot meal waiting for him on the table.

I even remember, back then, whenever we sat down to eat, if I reached for a rib, my mom would smack my hand away.

She'd say, "Hey, don't grab that. That one's for Scott. He works his brain all day. Let him have some extra."

My mom always washed Scott's clothes by hand, every single piece.

She'd say, "His shirts are too delicate for the washing machine, they'll get ruined."

Even in the dead of winter, when her hands were cracked and red from the cold, she'd still wash them herself.

Scott suggested hiring a housekeeper to help out, but my mom always said it was a waste of money.

She insisted on doing everything herself, no matter how tough it got.

She handled everything in the house herself, no matter how big or small.

All those years, Scott and I were out there working hard, never having to worry about a thing at home.

But now, here was Scott, actually rolling up his sleeves and cooking for someone else.

I stared at my mom's urn, and before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face.

Half an hour later, Scott came out carrying a lunchbox.

When he saw me crying silently, he paused for a moment.

He let out a long sigh, his voice softening.

"Evie, I was too harsh earlier. I'm sorry."

He walked over to the table and set the soup down.

"But Harriet really can't make it without me. We grew up together, and it's not the same as with anyone else. I just can't leave her hanging. Could you be a little more understanding?"

He paused, then pulled out his phone.

"Is your mom short on money? Just let me know, I'll send you some."

With that, he turned and headed for the door, changing his shoes without even looking back.

"I'm heading out. There's still some soup in the pot, have some, don't go hungry."

With a loud click, he slammed the door shut.

I quietly stared at the closed door, then pulled out my phone and dialed my uncle's number.

I said, "Uncle.

"How much longer until the family plot is ready?"

On the other end, my uncle's voice was thick with sorrow.

"Evie, it'll be ready in five days. I'll make sure your mom gets a proper farewell."

"Thanks, Uncle."

After hanging up, I walked over to the dining table.

I looked at the bowl of soup, still steaming on the table.

Then I glanced at the black urn sitting nearby.

I reached out, running my fingers gently over the urn.

"Mom," I whispered.

"In five days, I'll take you home."

Scott had been gone for almost an hour.

The soup he made was stone cold now, with a greasy white layer of fat congealed on top.

I picked up the bowl, walked over to the sink, and poured it all down the drain.

Suddenly, my stomach twisted, and a sickening wave of nausea crashed over me.

I doubled over the sink, gagging, but nothing would come out.

I washed my hands, then walked into my mom's bedroom.

I pulled back the covers and lay down, burying my face in the pillow.

Her scent still lingered there.

I didn't even notice when the tears started falling.

I drifted in and out of sleep, crying on and off the whole night.

When the sun came up, my eyes were so puffy I could barely open them.

I pushed open the bedroom door, and the living room lights were still on.

From the entryway, I heard Scott bringing Harriet in.

"The hospital's rehab ward is way too crowded and noisy. She can't get any rest there," Scott explained as he took off his shoes.

"So I brought her home. It's easier to look after her here."

Harriet flashed me a small smile. "Evie, sorry for bothering you again."

Scott glanced at me, his eyes pausing on my face for a moment before his brow furrowed slightly.

He kept his head down as he pushed Harriet's wheelchair toward the guest room, saying, "Harriet, get some rest. I'll warm up your breakfast."

The guest room door was left slightly ajar, and his voice came from inside.

"Is the pillow comfortable? If it's not, I'll grab you a different one."

I turned around and quietly closed my mom's bedroom door.

That afternoon, Scott went to the hospital to pick up Harriet's follow-up report.

Before he left, he turned to me and said, "Harriet's really sensitive right now. Just be patient with her at home, okay? Don't be cold to her."

I didn't reply. Instead, I walked into my mom's bedroom and began gently sorting through her belongings.

I carefully folded each piece of her clothing and placed them into organizer bags.

Right at that moment, the door swung open.