Chapter 5: Family Ties and Old Wounds

He asked, "Does it hurt now?"

I said nothing, wiping my face roughly with my sleeve. Ben frowned, took out the handkerchief I’d embroidered for him, and knelt up to gently help me clean the blood.

His touch was careful, tender, and it broke something inside me. I’d stitched that handkerchief from scraps, working by lamplight while Ben slept. He always kept it folded in his pocket, a silent shield against the world.

This display of motherly affection made the young heir, Zach, sneer. He couldn’t help but say, "No wonder Mom says you’re just gutter trash. You don’t belong here."

His voice was too sharp for a child, the cruelty echoing things he’d overheard, not understood. I’d heard such words countless times in the mayor’s house. Zach was raised by his legal mother, Mrs. Quinn, and always regarded me as a disgrace.

I was locked in a guesthouse, often burning the midnight oil to sew, making shoes and kneepads stitch by stitch, even giving him the lucky charm he’d worn since childhood through the old housekeeper.

After all, he was my own flesh and blood—how could I not care?

There were nights I’d watch his silhouette from the window, tracing his steps on the lawn, humming lullabies he never heard. I’d whisper prayers to a God I barely believed in, begging for his happiness, his health. Even as I was erased from his life, I couldn’t stop loving him.

But he never agreed to see me, tore those things to pieces, and had them thrown back over the fence. Staring at the mess on the ground, I thought: Perhaps birth can never outweigh upbringing.

The ripped shoes, the shredded lucky charm—each time they appeared on my doorstep, I’d patch them anyway, leaving them in the hope that one day, he’d accept them. That hope, stubborn as wild grass, kept me going when nothing else did.

I showed no reaction, but Ben’s eyes turned red as he trembled and shouted at Zach, "My mom is not trash!"

My heart lurched. I shot Ben a warning look—this wasn’t a fight we could win.

His voice rang through the SUV, small but fierce. I quickly covered Ben’s mouth. He looked at me, aggrieved, tears rolling down his cheeks.

He pressed his face against my side, shaking. My heart broke for him—for all the things I couldn’t shield him from.

"Don’t you have your own mom? If you call out again, I’ll make sure you can’t talk!" Zach leaned over, threatening him.

Michael Quinn coldly reprimanded, "Zach."

The mayor’s voice was sharp as a whip. Zach sat back, turning his head away in anger.

The tension in the car felt thick enough to choke on. For a long moment, nobody spoke.

"I didn’t expect that after all you’ve suffered, you still haven’t changed," Michael Quinn said, his face expressionless. "Since that’s the case, I don’t have to consider Zach’s feelings. I’ll bring you back to the house and give you a title."

Was this... letting me go?

The words sounded like freedom, but the threat behind them was unmistakable. Outside, the bodyguards opened the SUV door at his command. Michael Quinn said, "Once you step out, even if you beg on your knees later, I will not relent."

The cold air rushed in as the door swung open. I thought Michael Quinn would torment me again, but he only said these inexplicable words, as if to sever all ties. I even felt a strange sense of relief.

For a fleeting moment, I almost smiled. The city lights reflected on the snow, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Maybe this was the end—maybe, finally, he would leave us alone.

So I quickly took Ben and got out of the SUV, bowing my head and murmuring a quick thank you, never uttering a word from start to finish.

My voice was little more than a whisper, but it was all I could manage. The door closed behind us with a finality that echoed through my bones.

After a few steps, someone seemed to call out to me in panic from behind.

The sound was muffled, half-lost in the whir of passing cars and the hush of snowfall. I kept walking, Ben’s hand in mine, pretending I hadn’t heard my name echo through the snow. If I looked back, I knew I’d never escape.