Chapter 1

Standing in front of the mirror, I gently smoothed out the final crease on Lily's evening gown with my fingertips.

The girl in the reflection was about to turn eighteen, her skin glowing and her eyes sparkling with youthful life.

Looking at her, a bitter sting welled up in the corners of my eyes.

Twelve years ago, when I first met her, she was a tiny girl of just five.

Back then, her birth mother, Chloe—a woman who claimed to be "chasing her free soul"—emptied their last savings account and walked out on both her husband and daughter.

Five-year-old Lily was frail and tiny, suffering from severe separation anxiety. Every night, she had to clutch the hem of my shirt tightly just to drift off to sleep.

To take care of a child who shared none of my blood, and to give my husband Mark a stable sanctuary, I put my solo photography exhibition on hold and passed up a golden opportunity to study at a top art institute in New York.

Later on, whenever Mark and I talked about having a baby of our own, Lily would burst into tears, sobbing, "Auntie, if you have a real baby, will you stop loving me?" Every single time, my heart melted, and I backed down.

I poured all my maternal love unconditionally and unreservedly into her alone.

Twelve years. Over four thousand days and nights.

I cooked thousands of nutritionally balanced meals for her, rushed her to the ER in the middle of the night when she had high fevers, and cheered from the front row until my voice went raspy at every school recital and award ceremony.

"Eleanor," Lily turned around with a sweet, adorable pout, pulling my hand playfully. "Your cooking is the best, and this dress is absolutely perfect. Thank you so much for putting all of this together for me."

At that moment, watching her innocent smile, warmth nearly overflowed from my heart.

I felt that every sacrifice over the past twelve years—every compromise, even the regret of never becoming a biological mother—was completely worth it.

Even though I knew deep down that some scars in this household had never truly healed.

In the back drawer of my husband Mark's study, Chloe's old photographs were still kept locked away.

Over the years, whenever Chloe dropped a fake greeting on social media or sent an unsigned postcard during the holidays, Mark would sit out on the balcony and chain-smoke through the night.

Every time that happened, I swallowed my sorrow and reassured myself: Mark is just a sentimental man, and Lily is still young—she needs motherly care.

As long as I did my best and warmed them with twelve years of unconditional devotion, even a heart of ice would eventually melt.

That was, until thirty minutes ago, when I was heading downstairs to double-check the dinner catering and passed by Lily's bedroom.