Chapter 2
The car pulled away.
I stood by the window, watching the black Audi turn out of the neighborhood and disappear around the corner.
The living room was quiet.
It was so quiet, as if there hadn't been a boy living here for the past fourteen years.
I turned around and saw a glass of watermelon juice, still untouched, sitting on the coffee table.
I bought it for him yesterday.
He never took a sip.
I carried the glass into the kitchen, poured out the juice, washed it, and left it upside down on the drying rack.
Then I opened the door of his room.
The bed was neatly made.
The desk was mostly empty. He'd taken all his textbooks and stationery with him.
Only the silver bracelet rested quietly in the corner of the drawer.
I picked it up and held it tightly in my hand.
The chain had already started to tarnish. He'd never even worn it.
I put it in my jewelry box.
My phone rang.
It was Emily Turner.
"Jane, did Michael leave?" she asked.
"Yeah, he's gone," I replied.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Don't try to tough it out—"
"Emily, I'm really fine."
There was a moment of silence on the other end.
"If you want to cry, just let it out. Don't hold it in."
"I don't feel like crying. Honestly, maybe it's better this way."
"Better? What's so good about that?"
"If he wants to leave, let him. Maybe I could use a break too."
Emily sighed and didn't say anything else.
After hanging up, I sat on the couch, zoning out for a while.
It's not like it didn't hurt.
But more than anything, I felt this weird sense of relief.
Like the weight I'd been carrying for fourteen years had suddenly been lifted off my shoulders.
Even if the way it happened made me sick.
*****
At seven that evening, I cooked myself a plate of pasta.
Before, I always made two plates, one large and one small.
His pasta always had an extra egg.
But tonight, I just made one.
Halfway through my meal, my phone rang again.
It wasn't Emily.
It was Richard.
I picked up.
"Jane, Mike's arrived. You can relax," Richard said.
His voice had that gentle, patronizing tone, like he was reassuring a parent who'd just dropped their kid off at boarding school.
"Okay," I replied.
"I've got him his own room, and Linda picked up some new bedding for him. You really don't have to worry."
"Okay."
"And I've already been in touch with the high school. Getting him into Central High School shouldn't be a problem."
Central High School was the top high school in the city.
No matter how hard I tried, the best I could do was get him into an average high school.
"Alright," I said.
"Look, Jane, I know this hurts, but you have to admit that Michael's better off with me. He'll have more opportunities."
I didn't say anything.
"You've been doing it all alone for years. It's been tough, I know. Maybe now you can take it easy."
"Are you done?" I asked.
"What?"
"If you're done, I'm hanging up."
I hung up.
My fingers were clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palm.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a message on WhatsApp.
It was a photo from Linda.
Michael was sitting at a large desk, a brand-new laptop in front of him, with an entire wall lined with bookshelves behind him.
The caption read: [Welcome home, Mike! We're a family now.]
I stared at the two words "a family" for a long time.
Fourteen years ago, she came between us and forced me out of my own home.
Fourteen years later, she tore my son away from me.
And now she's telling me they're the ones who are a family.
I didn't reply.
I tossed my phone onto the couch.
The pasta had gone cold and stuck together in a clump.
I grabbed the plate and wolfed it down in just a few bites.
I couldn't let them go to waste.
It was a habit I'd gotten used to after fourteen years.
*****
The next morning, I went to work at the supermarket.
Just as I clocked in, my phone buzzed again.
It was a message from Michael: [Mom, can you send me my basketball shoes? The white ones.]
The white ones.
Last year on his birthday, Richard sent him a pair of limited edition shoes.
He treasured them so much that he couldn't even bring himself to wear them.
Staring at that message, I couldn't help but find it ironic.
He took everything with him when he left, except for the shoes Richard gave him.
As for all those clothes and backpacks I bought for him, he didn't take a single thing.
I replied: [Sure, I'll send them to you after work.]
He texted back: [Thanks, Mom.]
He said "thanks" once again.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and went back to restocking the shelves.
While I was restocking, the lady working beside me started chatting with me.
"Jane, how did your son do on his high school admission test?" she asked.
"Not bad," I replied.
"I heard the results come out next week? You'll have to treat us then!"
"Okay."
"Raising a kid all by yourself is tough. Once he does well, you can finally enjoy the good life."
I smiled and didn't say anything.
Enjoying the good life.
My son was already off, living in comfort with his father's family.
*****
After work, I went home, found those white basketball shoes, and put them in a box.
As I was about to seal the box, I hesitated.
Then I took the silver bracelet from my jewelry box and placed it inside the shoe box.
I'm giving back everything you didn't want, all at once.
The night I sent the package, my mom called.
"Jane, did Mike really go to his dad's place?" she asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
"How could you let him go? He's your own son!"
"Mom, he wanted to go."
"He's only fourteen! What does he know? Couldn't you have stopped him?"
"Would it have made a difference? His heart's not here anymore."
My mom started crying on the other end of the line.
"You stubborn kid. Do you remember how Richard kicked you and Mike out back then?" she asked.
"I remember."
"And now you're just letting him go to Mike?"
"Mom, it wasn't me. Mike decided on his own."
My mom cried even harder.
I just listened, not saying a word.
When she was done crying, I said, "Mom, don't worry about me. I'm doing fine."
"Fine? You're all alone—"
"I've been by myself for fourteen years already, Mom. This is nothing."
After hanging up, I leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
Silence filled the room.
The whole house was as quiet as a tomb.
*****
On the third day, the package showed as delivered.
Michael didn't text me to say he got it.
Instead, Linda was the one who posted on Instagram again.
In the picture, Michael was standing on a big balcony, wearing those white basketball shoes, grinning from ear to ear.
The caption read: [Sunshine boy.]
I looked at it for three seconds, then just swiped it away.
*****
Two days later, an unknown number called.
I picked up.
"Jane Foster, right? This is Michael's grandma," came the voice on the line.
It was Margaret Reed.
It had been fourteen years since I last heard her voice.
Her tone was as indifferent as ever.
"Mike's with his dad now, so let me say a few words," she said.
"Go ahead," I replied.
"Back then, you were determined to take Mike away, and we didn't make a fuss. Now he's grown up and knows what's good for him. So don't go blaming anyone else."
I gripped my phone, staying silent.
"Let's be honest, you're just a stocker at a supermarket. What can you really offer Mike? Richard runs a company, and Linda's got a good reputation. He'll have a much better future with them than with you."
I heard her take a sip of tea.
"I'm not saying you're a bad person, but that's just how things are in this world. Don't you think so?" she added.
I took a deep breath.
"Are you done?" I asked.
"What?"
"Now that you've said your piece, let me say mine."
Margaret went quiet.
I said, "Margaret Reed, fourteen years ago, your son cheated, and you helped him throw me out. I didn't say a word and just walked away with an eight-month-old baby in my arms.
"Tell me, in all these years, did the Reed Family ever pay a single dollar for Michael's tuition fees, living costs, or doctor bills?"
"Well—"
"I'm not finished," I cut her off.
My voice wasn't loud, but it was rock steady. "Now the kid's grown up, and you dangled money, a house, and all those so-called perks to lure him over. Fine, that's your skill. But don't call me just to act superior."
"I'm not trying to act superior—"
"Listen up. Michael made his own choice, and I respect that. But from now on, don't ever reach out to me again. The same goes for your son. If there's anything, take it up with a lawyer, not me."
I hung up.
My hands were shaking.
It wasn't fear. It was all the pent-up resentment and humiliation from fourteen years, finally spilling out from my throat, just a little.
My phone rang again.
It was Margaret calling back.
I hit decline.
She called again.
I blocked her right away.
Sitting on the couch, I stared at the dark screen of my phone and suddenly found myself laughing.
As I laughed, my eyes stung.
But no tears fell.
For me, tears aren't worth a damn anymore.
My phone lit up again.
It was a message from Richard. [Jane, my mom just runs her mouth sometimes. Don't let it get to you.]
I ignored him.
Another message popped up. [By the way, if you can, could you get Mike's school records and identification documents together? I need them for his transfer.]
I stared at the message.
School records and identification documents.
They didn't just want Michael. They wanted to erase every last trace of him from my life.
I set my phone down and walked out to the balcony.
Down on the street, a woman was walking with a little boy, holding his hand as they went.
The boy looked about four or five. He was chatting away as he walked, looking up at his mom.
The woman smiled as she listened to him.
I stood there watching them for a long time.
After a while, I headed back inside and grabbed my phone.
I sent Richard a reply: [We can talk about the identification documents some other time.]