Chapter 1

On the seventh day of my postpartum recovery, I opened the fridge and found it completely empty.

More than thirty containers of postpartum recovery meals were gone.

The nourishing fish soup, slow-cooked pork stew, and chicken soup my mother had spent an entire week preparing were all gone without a single box left behind.

I asked my mother-in-law, Olivia Cherry, about it.

She answered without the slightest bit of guilt, "Audrey is carrying twins. She needs the nutrition more than you do, so I sent everything to her."

I stood there, stunned, my body trembling from weakness.

She still wasn't satisfied. "You're young. Just have some oatmeal, that's enough for you. Stop acting so spoiled."

I didn't cry or make a scene. I picked up my phone and made a call right in front of her.

Olivia's smile froze instantly.

On the seventh day of my postpartum recovery, I got out of bed for the first time on my own.

The incision from my C-section was still hurting.

I held onto the edge of the bed to steady myself, and sweat broke out on my forehead.

My baby was sleeping in her bassinet, her mouth slightly open.

Her name is Sophia Cherry. She was Arthur's and my daughter.

When Arthur picked her name, he said, "As long as she grows up healthy and safe, nothing else matters."

Back then, I was still lying in the hospital bed outside the delivery room, the anesthesia hadn't worn off yet, and my fingers were cold.

He held my hand, his eyes red. "You've worked so hard, Claire."

I remember it all too well. So even though he had to rush out of town for some urgent business at work these last few days, I never blamed him.

Before he left, Arthur made sure everything at home was taken care of.

The second shelf in the fridge was for soups. The third shelf was for the main dishes.

The freezer was stocked with the prepped meals my mom had made.

He even hired a postpartum nanny for me.

But on Olivia's very first day in the house, she told the nanny right in front of her. "We don't need any help from outsiders here."

She said, "I've looked after two daughters-in-law already. You think I can't manage just one more?"

The nanny looked at me but stayed silent.

I had gotten home from the hospital and was totally wiped out.

That night, when Arthur video-called me, he asked why the nanny had left.

I told him Olivia wanted to take care of me herself.

He frowned.

I quickly said, "It's fine."

It was not that I was being overly forgiving.

I honestly believed that, no matter how much Olivia favored her other kids, she wouldn't let me suffer during my postpartum recovery.

My mom was so worried about me that before I even left the hospital, she spent an entire week at home cooking up nourishing soups.

She made nourishing fish soup, slow-cooked pork stew, beef stew, and chicken soup.

More than thirty containers, all carefully labeled and organized by date.

Her hands turned red from the steam as she packed each thermal bag into the fridge.

She turned to Olivia and said, "Olivia, Claire's really run down. The doctor said she needs extra nourishment."

Olivia smiled and nodded. "Don't worry, I wouldn't let her go hungry."

When my mom left, she secretly wiped away her tears.

She was worried I wouldn't know how to speak up for myself, and she was afraid Olivia would think she was meddling.

Back then, I tried to reassure her. "Mom, Arthur loves me, and Olivia won't go too far."

Thinking about it now, I can't believe how stupid I was to say that.

The day after Arthur left, Olivia handed me a bowl of oatmeal.

It was so thin that I could see right through to the bottom of the bowl.

I asked, "Is there any soup?"

She told me, "The soup's too oily. You can't have whatever you want right after having a baby."

The next day, it was oatmeal again. This time, she tossed in half an egg.

On the third day, she made me a bowl of instant pasta.

It was all stuck together, and there were a few sad tomatoes floating in the broth.

I held back and didn't say anything.

I thought, with so many postpartum meals in the fridge, maybe she was planning to serve them to me bit by bit, heating them as needed.

By the fourth day, my milk supply was running low.

Sophia woke up in the middle of the night, starving, crying so hard her little face turned red.

I sat on the edge of the bed, holding her close, and I was on the verge of tears myself.

Olivia came in, throwing on some clothes, her face clouded with annoyance. "So what if the baby cries a bit?

"Don't keep holding her. If you spoil her now, she'll always want to be in your arms."

I told her maybe Sophia was still hungry.

Olivia glanced at my chest, her tone even, not too soft or too harsh. "You're young and healthy. Stop making excuses."

I gritted my teeth and stayed silent.

On the fifth day, Arthur video chatted with me.

He asked if I was eating well.

Before I could answer, Olivia walked over with a bowl of oatmeal. She said, "Arthur, don't worry. I make her fresh meals every day.

"Your wife's keeping her meals light, so she'll recover faster."

Arthur's gaze lingered on me. "Claire, is that true?"

I caught Olivia outside the camera's frame, staring me down. I forced a smile and said, "It's okay."

Arthur didn't say anything right away. He knew me all too well.

Arthur knew me. When I said "okay," it meant I was barely holding on.

He wired me seven hundred dollars that night, telling me to order whatever I needed.

I didn't order anything. I couldn't eat takeout when I was recovering after giving birth.

I didn't want to distract him while he was away.

On the seventh morning, after Sophia fell asleep, I was starving.

It wasn't about wanting food.

It felt like my whole body was empty. My hands and feet were weak, my heart was pounding, and I was starting to panic.

Olivia was in the living room, scrolling through short videos, her laughter drifting into the bedroom now and then.

I called out to her. "Mom, could you heat a container of soup for me?"

There was a brief silence from the living room.

Olivia called out from the living room, "Wait a minute."

I waited for ten minutes. Still, nobody came in.

I leaned on the wall as I climbed out of bed. Each step tugged at my incision, sending a jolt of pain through me.

I shuffled into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

The fridge was empty. The second shelf was empty. And the third shelf was empty, too.