Chapter 3

After years of backbreaking work here, I wasn't that frail girl anymore.

Now, I was ruthless and cunning—a woman who'd stopped taking crap from anyone.

Just then, the village chief showed up with a few young men.

Pax clutched his smartwatch tightly and charged right in front of me, acting like a little man. He puffed up his chest, fierce as a wolf pup, and yelled, "Don't... you dare... hit... my... mom!"

He was smart and kind. Right after calling for help on his watch, when he saw one of those guys trying to hit me, he jumped out without hesitation to defend me.

Feeling ashamed, my parents grumbled at me under their breath and left, taking my brother with them.

Just like that, a perfectly good New Year's Eve went straight to hell.

Maybe it was since the day Pax managed to shout out that long sentence, but suddenly, he could speak so smoothly it surprised everyone.

He turned into a little chatterbox—clinging to me all day, never giving me a moment's peace, and always wanting his mom's attention.

He couldn't be more different from my other son.

That one was so cold and distant that I sometimes wondered if he'd just borrowed my body to come into this world. Other than that, it felt like we had nothing in common at all.

After the New Year, I took him to the market.

He'd filled out a bit, wearing the layered jacket Janessa had sewn for him. Squatting there on the ground, he was just like a little penguin, totally focused on building his tiny snowman.

I was selling frozen persimmons nearby.

Suddenly, a pair of pricey leather shoes came to a stop right in front of my stall. I looked up and locked eyes with an older boy.

Just then, Pax trotted over with a piece of bread, putting on his cutest voice. "Mom, this bread tastes so good! You try the first bite!"

Pax was always like this—whenever something tasted great, he'd make sure I got the first bite.

I took a bite. It really hit the spot.

Pax never fussed about food. He just chomped down, all sticky and happy, clinging to my back and wobbling his little body every now and then.

The older boy watched us with barely concealed disdain, his gaze icy cold.

I didn't bother to pitch anything to him—dressed head to toe in expensive brands, he clearly wasn't the kind who'd ever buy street food from someone like me.

Almost at the same moment, Pax and the older boy both called out, "Mom."

I turned around as if it was the most natural thing in the world, spotting Pax's grime-smudged cheeks. I fished out a handkerchief and wiped his face clean.

"Look at you, just like a little stray cat," I said.

Pax, a bit shy, buried his face into my shoulder for a second. When he noticed the older boy still staring at him, Pax piped up, "Hey, do you want some persimmons? My mom always picks out the biggest and sweetest ones to freeze. They're delicious!"

Jerome's face twisted in rage. He suddenly shoved Pax with a trembling hand, barely able to hold back his fury. "Who the hell are you? Don't flatter yourself, you dirty little stray!"

Pax reeled from the shove, panic in his eyes. He scrambled back to me, clinging to my waist and burying his face in my arms.

I frowned, my voice cold as ice as I stared Jerome down. "Jerome, if you're not buying anything, then get lost."

Jerome's eyes went bloodshot, and his voice shook with emotion. "You seriously don't recognize me?"

It had only been three or four years. How could I ever forget the one I brought into this world myself?

His face already had that sharp, intimidating vibe—just like his father's.

Those genes really did steamroll mine.

He didn't inherit a single thing from me—not even a flicker.

I gave him a cold, distant smile. "Could you move? You're blocking my customers."

Jerome's voice cracked with urgency. "Mom, it's me—your son! How can you not recognize me? Look, I have old pictures of us on my phone, just take a look!"

He frantically pulled out his phone, desperate to prove he was telling the truth.

"I've only got one son—the one right here in my arms. His name's Pax," I said.

I wasn't joking; I meant every word of it.

Just like he meant it, back then.

He was only six, but he kept pestering me, "Why did you steal Auntie's spot? Are you Dad's mistress?"

I kept telling him, "I married your dad fair and square. His whole family knows it—I'm not some homewrecker."

But he'd just shoot back, "I wish you weren't my mom. Auntie is way better than you, and Dad likes her more too. I want her to be my mom. She's having my baby sister, and I wish we could all live together as a real family."

The family of four he truly wanted—the one where I wasn't even a footnote.

His words shattered the last glimmer of hope I'd ever held for my marriage.

When I said that, he just broke down and started crying.

He stood there in front of my stall, sobbing like a lost kid nobody wanted.

If I kept watching him, my heart would just end up going soft.

I packed up my stuff and got out of there.

Pax sat quietly in the back of the tricycle, a far cry from his usual talkative self.

Almost home, he tugged at my sleeve and asked softly, "Mom, is he your son too?"

For a split second, I was at a complete loss—how was I supposed to answer that?