My daughter had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for me to come home.

My heart ached so badly it nearly crumbled. I was about to carry her back to her room when I realized her whole body was burning up, her little face flushed scarlet with fever.

I rushed her to the hospital by cab. It wasn't until the next morning that her temperature finally started to come down.

The doctor fixed me with a stern look. "This child had a fever for half the night before you thought to bring her in. A few more hours and she would've been severely dehydrated. Pills wouldn't have fixed that."

Guilt and fear gnawed at me. I hadn't slept all night and didn't dare close my eyes, staying glued to the chair beside her hospital bed.

Then I remembered the phone watch I'd bought her. I opened the companion app and checked the call log.

Over a dozen missed calls.

Every single one to Reginald.

He was the one who'd insisted on being listed as her emergency contact. He'd looked me in the eye and sworn, "I'll always be there for Moira. You can count on me."

And this was what that promise was worth.

A friend request notification popped up on my phone. No message attached. I recognized the sender from her latest Instagram story.

Fiona.

She'd posted a live photo of herself pouting, pressing a kiss to Reginald's cheek. In the background, clothes were scattered across the floor beside a sheet stained with smudges and water marks. When I tapped the photo, her coy, breathy voice filled my ears.

"Your phone's been ringing nonstop since we started. You're really not going to answer?"

Reginald's voice came through low and husky. "Nothing in the world is more important than you."

My vision went black. I couldn't bear to imagine it—every ring of every call my daughter made had been nothing but background music to their little performance.

Reginald didn't show up until that afternoon, dragging Fiona along with him.

He looked frantic. His voice dripped with guilt.

"How's Moira? This is all my fault. My phone was off last night—I never got the calls."

"You've been up all night. You must be exhausted. Go get some rest. Fiona and I can watch her."

But whether he truly never got those calls or chose to ignore them—I knew the answer better than he did.

My daughter was my bottom line.

I looked at Reginald, and whatever softness he'd managed to coax out of me was gone. Every wall snapped back into place, every thorn pointed outward. My voice came out cold as steel.

"No need. My daughter is mine to take care of."

"We're done."

I've always been a woman of my word.

When I said it was over with Reginald, I meant it. I blocked his number, his social media—every way he had of reaching me.

He resorted to showing up at my cart to buy breakfast burritos just to get a chance to talk.

The morning crowd pressed in on all sides. He opened his mouth, struggled, his face reddening.

"Fiona and I—it's not what you think."

I didn't look up. I finished making his order and held it out to him.

"What does that have to do with me?"

He stood there, frozen, for several seconds.

The color drained from his face, then flooded back in a mottled, livid flush. He never came to the cart again.

Instead, he paraded around campus with Fiona on his arm for all to see.

Everyone said I'd been dumped—that the secondhand goods had finally been thrown away. And because I was a divorced single mother who happened to be pretty, every creep in the area suddenly thought I was fair game.

One morning, a heavyset man with a bloated face leaned over the counter, pretending to buy a burrito. His thick fingers reached out and stroked the back of my hand.

I slapped his hand away. My expression turned to ice.

"If you're not here to buy food, move."

My voice carried. Every head in the crowd turned.

The man's face swelled an ugly shade of purple, humiliated in front of everyone.

"Stuck-up bitch. Someone offers you a little attention and you spit in their face?"

"You're damaged goods that's already been passed around. What's the big deal if I cop a feel?"

He grabbed the edge of my cart and flipped it.

The crash of metal slamming into pavement exploded in my ears. The scalding griddle smashed against my forearm.

White-hot pain shot through me, instant and blinding, like the skin was being ripped clean off the bone.

The crowd kept growing, every last one of them gawking and whispering about me.

The fat-faced thug's insults grew louder, more vicious, flecks of his spit landing on my face.

"Didn't Reginald used to chase after you? Treated you like a princess, put you on a pedestal? So what happened? He got tired of you already?"

"Bet he slept with you once and realized a woman who's already popped out a kid can't compete with a tight young thing, huh?"

"Who knows, maybe the real reason you divorced your ex-husband is because you were sleeping around. That brat of yours is probably some other man's bastard!"

Every word filthier than the last.

A ringing filled my ears. Everything went red.

By the time I came back to myself, the spatula had already swung in a full arc and cracked across his mouth.

Once.

Twice.

A patrol officer rushed over and pulled me off him, hauling both of us down to the station.

The thug's lips were split and swollen, blood running down his chin. Two of his front teeth were gone.

The female officer handling my statement was sympathetic, but she could only do her job.

"Ms. Walker, the other party's injuries have been classified as minor assault, and he's refusing to sign a settlement agreement."

"You're looking at five days of detention and a five-hundred-dollar fine."

Five days?

But Moira's school sports day was in three days.

She already didn't have a father by her side. I couldn't be absent too.

I drew a deep breath and started dialing the number I once knew by heart.

The door swung open before the call connected.

I hung up. Reginald hurried in.

When he saw me sitting on the bench in one piece, the tension drained from his shoulders.

"I'll post her bail. I'm covering the deposit."

Outside the station, I thanked him properly.

"Thank you. I'll transfer the deposit back to you as soon as I get home."

Reginald looked at me, speechless for a moment, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face.

"Your arm needs to be treated too. Let me take you to the hospital first."

The words had barely left his mouth when his phone rang.

Fiona's voice came through, teary and sweet, dripping with helplessness.

"Reggie, my little nephew got bullied at school."

"His parents are out of town on business. Can you come stand up for us? Please?"

Just like that, Reginald forgot about me and my blood-soaked arm. He jumped in his car and sped off.

The exhaust fumes hit me so hard I couldn't stop coughing.

I pulled my gaze back in silence, figuring I'd find a pharmacy for some burn cream and bandages.

My phone rang.

The teacher's voice on the other end was stern.

"Is this Moira Walker's parent?"

"Moira's been involved in an incident at school. We need you to come in."

I didn't even have time to treat my wound. I rushed straight to the school.

When I pushed open the office door, my daughter was standing alone in the corner.

Across from her, a little boy was being cradled like a treasure, shielded on all sides.

He poked his head out and spat at my daughter, pulling a face.

"Nyeh nyeh nyeh, you don't have a daddy! You're a bastard!"

"Your mom's a used-up tramp nobody wants, and when you grow up, you'll be a little tramp too!"

The air left my lungs. I pulled Moira into my arms and pressed my hands over her ears.

I was about to ask what kind of parents raised a child to talk like that.

Then I looked up and met Reginald's eyes.

The expression on his face was complicated.

That was when I saw clearly who was shielding that little boy.

It wasn't strangers.

It was Reginald and Fiona.

Fiona pulled the boy closer, her voice trembling with practiced grievance.

"Hailey, if you resent me for accidentally calling you 'ma'am' that one time, or for stealing Reggie away from you, I'll apologize. Go ahead, hit me, yell at me, I can take it."

"But if you're angry, come at me. How could you put your own daughter up to attacking my nephew?"

The resolve in my daughter's expression wavered.

She trembled in my arms, her small fingers clutching the front of my shirt as she looked toward Reginald.

"Uncle Reggie, do you think it's my fault too?"

Reginald was quiet for a moment, then sighed.

"No matter what happened, hitting someone is still wrong."

"You heard him, Moira. Now hurry up and apologize to Tyler."

"Why should she apologize?"

I pulled my daughter closer, firing back immediately.

"Wasn't he the one who started it by calling her names?"

"Calling her a bastard and her mother trash — he deserved to get hit!"

At that, Fiona pinched the little boy hard.

Tyler burst into wailing sobs, and Fiona's own eyes reddened on cue.

"Tyler's parents are overseas all year round. I've been the one raising him since he was little. Even a scraped knee breaks my heart."

She pulled up the boy's sleeve, shoving a ghastly purple bruise right under Reginald's nose.

"Now he's been beaten like this, and I can't even get a basic apology for him. How can I face him when he calls me Auntie?"

Reginald didn't hesitate any longer. He turned to the teacher.

"If Moira refuses to apologize, we're requesting that this be handled formally."

"If a student can assault another child and face zero consequences, every other kid in this school will think that's acceptable."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Are you threatening me?"

Reginald couldn't meet my eyes. His voice softened.

"Hailey, you were nearly detained today for hitting someone. Do you really want Moira following in those footsteps?"

"It's just an apology. I promise no one will say those things to her again."

Moira lifted her head from my arms. Her voice was small, but every word was clear.

"Mommy, if I say sorry, will they stop making things hard for you?"

My eyes burned. I swallowed the ache in my throat and stroked her hair.

"You don't need to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Go wait for me outside, okay? Mommy will come get you soon."

I walked her to the door and closed it behind her.

She must have sensed what I was about to do. Her fists pounded against the door, and she started crying, calling for me.

The bridge of my nose stung. My throat clenched so tight it hurt.

I was stubborn by nature. Proud my whole life. I had never once bowed my head or backed down.

When my parents tried to guilt me with everything they'd done for me, demanding I drop out of school and marry some middle-aged bachelor back home, I stole my own ID and birth certificate and cut them off for good.

When Alvin used the threat of leaving me with nothing to keep me in line, expecting me to swallow his affair in silence, I filed for divorce on the spot and fought tooth and nail to win custody of my daughter.

But now, under Fiona's gaze — the triumph she could barely contain —

I bent. Inch by inch.

My eyes throbbed with pressure. I ground every last shred of humiliation and fury between my teeth and swallowed it whole.

Just as I was about to force that apology through my clenched jaw —

A voice came from behind me. Familiar. Cold as steel.

"She doesn't need to apologize."

Alvin James stood in the doorway, tailored suit sharp against the cramped little office like he'd walked in from another world entirely.

He led Moira inside by the hand. He didn't spare a single glance at Fiona, whose eyes had already lit up at the sight of him.

His gaze landed on me, steady and burning, and he said it again.

"My wife doesn't owe anyone an apology."

Fiona's face twisted for a split second, the mask nearly cracking as a scream clawed its way up her throat.

Her eyes fixed on me, venomous. "She's your ex-wife. Is she really worth all this?"

"Moira refused to apologize. As her mother, shouldn't she take responsibility and apologize on Moira's behalf?"

"Her daughter hit my nephew — it's all on the security cameras!"

Alvin looked at Fiona as though he'd only just noticed she was in the room.