At sixty years old, I discovered something that shattered my entire existence—my marriage certificate with my husband was a fake and the son I had raised with my own two hands was not mine. He was the child of my husband and my own sister.

For the past forty years, I had dedicated my life to them. I gave up countless opportunities for promotion to support Luke Rivera’s career, becoming a full-time housewife in the name of love.

When our son wanted to buy a house in a prestigious school district, I took on four jobs a day, working through the night as if it were daylight.

When our grandson developed chronic stomach problems, I cooked three meals a day for him with care and love.

Life was exhausting, but I had convinced myself it was worth it.

That illusion lasted until last night—when Luke finally decided to fulfill the promise he made to me forty years ago: to take me on a world tour. I was overjoyed and eagerly packed my suitcase. But then, I accidentally came across his chat history with Camila Jenkins.

[Honey, good thing we burned that fake marriage certificate back when we got married. Otherwise, my sister would’ve found out hers was the counterfeit.]

[If she had discovered the truth, we would’ve been ruined. No one would’ve taken care of our son, handled the housework, or saved all that money for us. And you wouldn’t have been able to chase your dreams.]

[Before we leave, make sure to get rid of her. I don’t want her ruining our family trip.]

It felt as if I had plunged into an icy abyss.

The happiness I had once been so proud of turned out to be nothing but lies and betrayal.

Everything I had done, everything I had sacrificed, had been for someone else’s benefit.

So after they boarded their plane, I sold everything I owned and set off alone—to finally fulfill the dream I had been denied in my youth.

Whatever time I had left, I would live it for myself.

——

“Ms. Jenkins, your documents have been successfully submitted. We’ve arranged an emergency lane for you. You’ll receive your passport and visa within a week.”

The staff member handed back my documents with a polite smile.

I took them with trembling fingers, emotions swirling in my chest.

Traveling the world had been my dream at eighteen. Luke had promised to make that dream come true. But forty years had passed and I hadn’t even been able to travel to another province.

Now, as that dream finally stood within reach, I felt oddly lost.

By the time I returned home, the sun had already set.

I walked through the door to find Luke sitting on the couch, video chatting with Camila. His face wore a shy, boyish grin that felt completely out of place for a man his age.

But the moment he saw me, his expression darkened.

“Where have you been? Why are you so late? Don’t you know we haven’t eaten yet? Go make dinner—don’t let the kids go hungry.”

In the past, I would’ve immediately gone to the kitchen, grabbed a spatula and cooked for them without a word. But now, looking at the mountain of unwashed dishes and the overflowing trash bin, I felt nothing but exhaustion. I sat down on the sofa.

“I’m very tired today. Go eat out—or have Camila come cook for you. Didn’t you say her cooking’s better than mine?”

He noticed my gaze on his phone and quickly covered the screen. Then, with a forced calm, he said.

“She just asked me about work. Are you seriously jealous over this? At your age? You’re so petty. If you came on this trip, you’d just find ways to pick on her. Honestly, I don’t think you should go. You’d definitely make a scene.”

My son entered the house, casually kicking off his shoes as he chimed in.

“Mom, we’re going to Italy. You don’t speak Italian, so it’ll be a pain and a waste of money. This trip’s to relieve work stress. You’re always at home doing nothing—what stress do you need to relieve?”

As he spoke, he tossed his socks into the laundry basket I had prepared, completely ignoring the fact that my underwear was still inside.

My son didn’t resemble me at all. I used to think he had simply inherited more of Luke’s genes. But now, looking closely, I could see the resemblance to Camila.

No wonder he always defended her—he carried her blood.

My real child had died during childbirth, taken from me before I ever held them in my arms.

I let out a bitter sigh and gave one last effort.

“But your aunt doesn’t speak Italian either.”

Without hesitation, my son shot back, “That’s different. My aunt’s an artist. She should travel the world for inspiration. She doesn’t speak Italian, but my dad does. Mom, you’ve always been jealous of her talent. You keep comparing yourself to her. But we all know who you are. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

He spoke with such certainty, such disdain.

He had clearly forgotten how sickly he was as a child, how doctors once said he wouldn’t live past the age of eight. It was me—I had run from hospital to hospital, begged for treatment and saved his life.

And his biological mother, Camila, had gone abroad in pursuit of freedom and had never even visited him once.

As I was about to remove his socks from my underwear, my grandson suddenly stormed out of his room and shoved me hard.

I lost my balance and fell backward, landing on the floor in a humiliating heap.

Laughter erupted from around the room. Not one of them offered to help me up.

My grandson planted his hands on his hips, looked down at me and shouted with disgust.

“You old hag! You’re nothing compared to my aunt. Go look in the mirror—you look like a pig spirit in human form. Gross! My aunt’s beautiful and always smells nice. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t want you as my grandma!”

I looked at him, calm and composed and said softly,

“Then let Camila be your grandmother. After all, you share her blood.”

Before I could blink, Luke slammed an ashtray onto the table in front of me.

“What the hell are you saying?” he roared. “Are you accusing me of having an affair with your sister? How could you think something so filthy? I only helped your sister because she had no one else. I did it for you!”

I glanced at the ashtray that had nearly hit me and replied with a quiet voice.

“I spoke out of turn. Fine. I won’t go on this trip. You two go ahead.”

They never intended to bring me anyway. So I might as well give them what they want.

Upon hearing my words, everyone turned to look at me in surprise.

Luke was the first to react. His tone carried a hint of excitement, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

"You said it yourself," he said. "So don’t blame us later for not taking you along. This time, I won’t pamper you like I did last time."

He was referring to his birthday last year.

I had spent a small fortune to have a custom-made tailored just for the occasion—to give him face, to make him proud. But the moment he saw it, he sneered and said,

"With that bulky figure, you dare wear that? It’s hideous. Something like that only looks good on Camila. On you, it’s disgusting."

My self-esteem shattered in that instant. I lashed out, “If you think I’m such an embarrassment, I won’t attend tonight. You can celebrate your birthday alone.”

And he really did.

That night, Luke stood beside Camila, hand in hand, cutting the birthday cake in front of all the guests.

By the time the banquet ended in the early morning, I had cried so much that my eyes were red and swollen. When he returned home, he threw a leftover piece of cake at me with an impatient tone.

“I saved this specially for you.”

It was that pitiful piece of cake that softened my heart and made me reconcile with him, once again slipping back into the role of his servant.

Now, thinking back on that day, it felt like a thorn buried deep in my heart, constantly aching with every breath.

At this point, my daughter-in-law chimed in, pretending to be concerned.

“Don’t overthink it, Mom. If you want to go, just go.”

But I knew she had already hidden my suitcase.

The home I had lived in for decades suddenly felt unfamiliar—like I was being exiled from my own life. I turned around silently and walked back into the house, feeling drained.

Then Luke received a call from Camila.

He barged into my room and barked at me in that commanding tone he always used when speaking to the help.

“Camila’s place had a power outage. She’s scared to sleep alone, so she’s coming over. Go get the guest room ready for her. Oh, and she hasn’t eaten yet, so cook a few dishes she likes.”

I pressed my temples and sighed. “I already told you—I’m not feeling well today. Just go out and eat.”

“Don’t pretend!” he snapped. “You sit around all day doing nothing and still complain when I ask for a little help? You’ve got it easy.”

“Get up and cook!”

Without warning, he yanked me off the bed. I stumbled and hit the corner of the table hard. Blood instantly streamed down my forehead.

For a brief moment, Luke’s face changed. But before he could say anything, his phone buzzed.

His eyes lit up when he saw the message. Without another word, he turned around and rushed out of the room.

“Camila says she doesn’t want to trouble us and is inviting us out to eat instead. Hurry up and get ready—we don’t want to keep her waiting.”

A moment later, I heard cheerful voices from the living room and the slam of the front door.

I stared at the door, unable to move, my heart tangled with disappointment and quiet rage.

They had forgotten I had been packing their luggage since six in the morning, hadn’t eaten a single bite all day—and still, I didn’t even receive a proper invitation.

I quietly bandaged the wound on my head, then reached under the bed and dragged out a heavy iron box.

It held only four things.

Two marriage certificates, a dried rose and a silver ring that wasn’t even worth a hundred dollars—four items that had tied me to a lifetime of suffering.

When I was five, my father had an affair with Camila’s mother and brought his mistress into our home. My mother, heartbroken, died from the grief. Her eyes couldn’t even close in peace at her funeral.

With my mother gone, I had no protection. I lived under the torment of my stepmother and her daughter, enduring a childhood of abuse.

Then Luke entered my life like a light in the darkness.

He always appeared at my lowest points, lending a hand when I needed it most.

When my stepmother tried to sell me off to a man in his fifties, Luke stepped in, proposed and took me to this city.

I truly believed he was my prince. I thought I was stepping into a happy, stable life.

I had no idea it was all a setup.

Luke had always loved my sister. But my sister loved her freedom and didn’t want to be burdened by family life. So they used me.

They tricked me into marrying him.

I raised their child.

I saved their money.

I cooked, cleaned and served him—just a glorified housemaid under the title of a wife.

I reached up to wipe the tears that had unknowingly spilled down my cheeks.

Then I broke the rose in half. I threw the silver ring into the toilet and flushed it. Finally, I picked up the two marriage certificates and burned them.

Halfway through, the door creaked open.

Luke stepped in.

His nose twitched at the scent of burning paper. He furrowed his brows and snapped.

“What are you doing?”

I quickly threw myself forward, shielding the last bit of the burning paper with my body as the marriage certificates turned to ash.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Luke snapped from behind. “What are you burning? Are you deaf in your old age?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even flinch.

Annoyed by my silence, Luke stormed over to see for himself. But all he found was a pile of ashes. Just as he was about to question me further, Camila walked in.

She was three years younger than me, yet she looked twenty years younger—elegant, radiant, effortlessly beautiful. Standing next to her, I felt like a shadow of myself. I couldn’t help but wonder—if I hadn’t been burdened with endless responsibilities, would I look like that too?

“Sister, why are you hiding at home while everyone else is out having fun?” she asked, wrapping her arm around mine like we were childhood best friends. “Is it because you hate me?”

Her voice was honeyed, her smile sweet, but I could feel the venom underneath.

Luke glanced at me with a smirk. His thoughts were written all over his face: She’s jealous. Jealous because I video chatted with Camila. She’s so old, yet she still throws tantrums like a schoolgirl, always waiting for someone to coax her. Look at her—skin sagging, clinging to childish games. Pathetic.

Camila’s eyes sparkled with mockery, though her tone remained gentle and innocent.

“Oh, sister,” she said, “there’s nothing going on between your husband and me. If there were, do you think you’d even be part of the picture? Honestly, I’m prettier, more more well-mannered—men always go for someone like me.”

Before I could respond, she grabbed my arm and dragged me outside. I resisted, but she was persistent, forcing me to follow her all the way to the restaurant.

As soon as we stepped into the private dining room, something cold and greasy smacked me in the face.

A piece of fatty meat.

Then came the sharp, impatient voice of my grandson.

“I told you not to eat with her! She always shakes when she eats. Every time she lifts her spoon, food ends up all over the table. It’s disgusting! She ruins my appetite. My stomach issues are all her fault!”

I froze. I looked down at my hands—worn, callused, trembling uncontrollably.

Three years ago, he was playing in the street when a car came speeding toward him. I ran without hesitation, threw myself in front of the vehicle and pushed him out of harm’s way. I was thrown nearly five meters and never fully recovered. The trembling had never stopped since.

Back then, he clutched my hands and sobbed, “I’m sorry, Grandma. It’s my fault you’re like this now. I’ll take care of you forever. I’ll never let you get hurt again.”

But now… he had ripped open that wound and stomped on it in front of everyone.

My son frowned, then picked up a bowl, filled it with rice and meat and tossed it on the floor in front of me.

“Mom, you really do kill my appetite. And since Aunt Camila is here today, please don’t ruin her mood. Just sit on the ground and eat.”

Shame rose in my chest like a burning flood.

My fists clenched at my sides. But my stomach was cramping with hunger and in the end, I bent down to pick up the bowl. Just one more day. They’ll leave tomorrow and I’ll be free. I can endure this. Just until tomorrow.

But before my fingers even touched the bowl, my grandson kicked it over.

White rice and chunks of meat splattered across the floor.

Before I could react, he pointed his finger at my nose and shouted, “Didn’t I tell you not to eat with us? You said you didn’t want to be my grandma anymore. So you’re not family. Get out. You’re not welcome here!”

I stood frozen, unable to speak, unable to move.

Then Luke shoved me toward the door.

His eyes were cold with contempt. “I told you not to speak recklessly. Who told you to give the child to Camila? And now what? Regret it? Well, too late. Today’s supposed to be a good day. Don’t ruin the mood. You don’t need to eat. Wait outside. I’ll bring you leftovers later.”

And with that, he slammed the door in my face.

I stood there, humiliated, as passing strangers glanced at me with curious, pitiful eyes. I felt stripped bare—exposed, degraded.

Just then, the door creaked open again. Camila appeared, holding a steaming bowl of soup in her hands.

“Sister,” she said sweetly, “don’t be upset over what a child said. I brought you some soup. Drink it while it’s still hot.”

I opened my mouth to refuse, but in the next moment—before I could utter a single word—she tilted the bowl and poured the soup onto her own hands.

She let out a shriek.

“Oh no, Sister! I know you’ve never liked me, but did you have to scald me with hot water? These hands… I need them to play the piano!”

Before I could defend myself, Luke stormed out—and his palm crashed against my cheek.