Chapter 1
When my son, Mike Dawson, was six, he cursed at someone in Moretorian for the first time.
And I was the one he cursed at.
At the kindergarten gate, he stood among a bunch of kids, his little backpack slung over his shoulders. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear as day.
He called me a fat pig.
The other kids didn't get it, but they laughed along.
I understood every word, because I taught him every single syllable.
I stood outside the school gate, seven months pregnant, the thermos in my hand burning my palm.
When Mike saw me, his smile vanished in an instant.
I reached out to take his backpack.
But he dodged, pulling it behind his back and scrunching up his nose.
"Mom, you smell bad," Mike said.
I froze for a second.
I sweated a lot now that I was in the last months of pregnancy, but I'd made sure to change before I left the house.
One of the kids nearby asked, "Is that your mom?"
Mike didn't answer right away.
After a few seconds, he finally mumbled with his head down, "Yeah."
He sounded like he was forcing himself to say it.
Admitting I was his mom felt like something to be embarrassed about.
I looked at him. "Who taught you that Moretorian phrase just now?"
His eyes flickered. "What Moretorian?"
"You called me a fat pig," I said.
He kicked at the leaves on the ground, not saying a word.
I pressed, "Did your dad say that?"
Mike pursed his lips. "They all say that.
"Grandma says since you got pregnant with my sister, you're not like you used to be."
My belly gave a little kick.
I grabbed the railing, and suddenly, the burn in my palm didn't hurt so much anymore.
What hurt was that I was the one who taught him every word he knew.
But the first thing he did after he learned was to despise me.
*****
My name was Sylvie Walker.
Before I got married, I worked as a Moretorian translator.
When my husband, Calvin Dawson, first started his business, he couldn't even write a proper business email.
When he had his first meeting with a Moretov client, I had to help him with everything, like how to make small talk, give a quote, and write the after-sales terms. I walked him through it all, step by step.
One night, the client suddenly changed their requirements, and Calvin was pacing the living room, looking like he was about to lose it.
I sat at the computer, reworking the whole plan from scratch and translating it into Moretorian, line by line.
By two in the morning, he fell asleep on the couch.
But I was still up, replying to his emails for him.
Later, when the deal went through, he got a little drunk at dinner and patted his chest, saying, "Good thing I kept it together."
I smiled at the time.
Thinking back, it wasn't that he forgot everything I'd done for him.
He never intended to give me the credit for any of it.
After that, the business kept booming.
Calvin traded up for a new car, moved into a fancy villa, and everyone started calling him Mr. Dawson.
After I got pregnant with Mike, my mother-in-law, Aurora Dawson, tried to talk me into quitting my job.
"The first three years are the most important for a kid. No real mom would feel comfortable letting someone else raise her baby," Aurora said.
Calvin jumped in, "Why don't you stay home for a few years?
"I'll make the money."
I believed them.
That break turned into six years at home.
In those six years, I raised Mike from a crying baby into the kind of model kid other parents always bragged about.
He could play the piano, play chess, and speak Moretorian.
His kindergarten teachers always said he was clever.
Our relatives always praised Calvin for how well he raised Mike.
Aurora would beam every time.
"Kids from the Dawson family are something else," she'd say.
No one ever mentioned me.
Now and then, someone would ask, "Was Mike's mom a Moretorian translator before?"
Aurora would jump in, "She's got it easy now, staying home with the kids. It's not like that's exhausting."
I used to smile along.
We were family, and there was no need to keep score.
That was until today, when Mike used the Moretorian I taught him to insult me.
He reached out his hand again. "Mom, I want ice cream."
Whenever he held out his hand, I'd grab his backpack, water bottle, and jacket for him, then ask if he'd behaved at school.
But today, I stood there still.
"We're not getting ice cream today," I said.
He looked up at me. "Why not?"
"Because you insulted me," I said.
He froze for a second, like he hadn't expected me to say that.
"But I didn't say it in Hupolish," he muttered.
I looked at him. "Just because you said it in Moretorian doesn't mean it didn't hurt me."
His face turned red. "You're so mean.
"Grandma says since you got pregnant with my sister, you've been so petty."
I opened the car door.
"Get in," I said.
He stood there, not moving.
Normally, I'd crouch down and coax him.
But today, I tossed his backpack into the car.
"If you don't get in, you can walk home by yourself," I said.
Mike froze.
He stared at me, as if he realized for the first time that his mom could say something like that.
Three seconds later, he started crying.
He was bawling his eyes out.
Plenty of parents at the school gate turned to look at us.
I didn't bother comforting him.
I let him cry.
When he realized crying wasn't getting him anywhere, Mark climbed into the back seat.
Halfway home, he unscrewed his water bottle on purpose.
Water splashed all over the place.
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
"You're cleaning that up when we get home," I said.
"But this is Dad's car," he protested.
"And you made the mess," I said.
His eyes went wide. "You never used to be like this."
Right then, the light turned red.
I hit the brakes.
"I never thought you guys would turn out like this," I said.
When we got home, Aurora was watching TV in the living room.
Mike made a beeline for her, tattling as soon as he walked in.
"Grandma, Mom wouldn't let me have ice cream, and she made me clean up the car," he whined.
Aurora immediately put down the remote.
"Sylvie, since you got pregnant, you've been so short-tempered. It's just ice cream. Why not let him have some? What's the big deal?" Aurora yelled.