Mrs. Laurent and I wept together. Mr. Laurent forced himself forward, glanced down and eventually, two silent tears slid down his face

"Didn't I tell them to clear out all the beehives near the villa? I even arranged for patrols! Where did these bees come from that stung my precious grandchild and triggered his allergy?!"

"It must be that bastard's private garden, right?!"

I forced a bitter smile. James knew full well about our son's bee allergy. He had even flattened the villa’s garden and poured concrete over it just to prevent accidents.

But when Greta returned, he became a different person.

Not only did he let Greta replant flowers and greenery, he also let her raise bees, saying it was all in the name of 'returning to nature.

When I brought up our son's allergy again, James lazily said, "I'll put up a fence. That way, the kid can't get in and there's no danger."

Fences might stop people, but how could they stop flying bees?

In an instant, memories of my son's painful struggle before he died flooded back.

I couldn’t break through the damned iron gate … I could only watch as he collapsed on the lawn, convulsing until he stopped moving.

When he died, his little body was stiff, covered in angry red welts, his eyes still clinging to life.

I couldn't accept it, so I held him tight and asked the mortician to cover those dreadful scars.

As if by doing so, my dear boy who once called me "Mommy" with his innocent voice might return.

As if he hadn't endured such unbearable suffering. As if he might wake up any moment.

Yet it was just a foolish hope.

The mortician finished covering the final rash, set down his pen and approached me with a solemn expression.

“Ma’am, your child is ready. He’s ready to begin his journey now.”

Only then did I realize the call had never ended and James' mocking voice echoed through the line.

“Evelyn, are you seriously playing the grieving heroine again? First, you drag Grandpa and Grandma into your act and now you're getting someone to say the child is ready to ‘begin his journey’? Don’t tell me you’re still at the funeral home?”

I was exhausted and didn’t want to argue anymore. “Yes, the child is at the funeral home. If you hurry, you can still see him one last time.”

I didn’t expect him to sneer:

“Evelyn! Do you have no shame? It’s just a bee sting! If he were really allergic, the hospital would've handled it! Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for this?”

“Like mother, like son! No wonder the little brat’s been lying and acting like a spoiled child recently!”

Mr. Laurent couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed the phone and shouted angrily, “Bastard! Are you still with that vixen right now? Get over here now!”

Right after, he clutched his chest and slammed the phone down.

Mrs. Laurent rushed to help, but Mr. Laurent weakly pushed her away, sobbing.

“A cursed family! The grandson you raised says that even if Noah is really dead, it doesn’t matter, because that vixen still has another one in her belly and it’ll be even more obedient! Bastard!”

Grandma froze. Her teary, clouded eyes filled with pain. She looked at me with grief and pleaded.

“Evelyn, don’t listen to his nonsense. We only accept the child you gave birth to.”

“Don’t worry, your grandpa and I will go home right now, kick that vixen out and bring that guy here to kneel and apologize to you!”

A wave of bitterness rose in my throat. I shook my head. “Grandma, it’s fine. Since James has already turned away, I’ll just leave with Noah.”

“I’ve been tired for too long. I think … it’s time to go.”

The two elders stood there, speechless, staring at me.

We stood there, in front of the cremation furnace, mourning all night. When the staff finally handed me the small box containing my son’s favourite toy, it felt like my heart was being crushed.

I placed the box carefully, then rushed out, barely able to breathe and took a cab back home.

My son’s belongings lay untouched in that cold room. I would never leave them for James, the man who had never truly loved him.

But the moment I opened the door, I was assaulted by the loud, jubilant noise.

“Wow, Greta’s amazing! She’s carrying James’s little princess now!”

The whole house was decorated in pink. James and Greta’s friends were all toasting.

Someone mocked me, waving the divorce papers I had left behind like a victory flag. “James, that bitch at your house actually has some guts, divorcing you and even saying she’ll leave with nothing.”

“She must be out of her mind! A poor woman trying to take the kid? Doesn’t she know her place?”

“Tsk, if it were me, I’d let her take him! What kind of child is that? He smells of poverty. Taking him out would just be embarrassing for James!”

“Exactly! Let Greta have him! She’ll give birth to a real heir for the Laurent family!”

The crowd burst into laughter. I opened the door, stepped inside and suddenly everything went silent.

James looked at me with cold indifference, tightening his grip on Greta as if I were invisible.

"Who cares about being a ‘young master’? My daughter will be just as good.”

"Greta and I had begun her education before she was even born."

As he spoke, he placed a small model airplane on Greta’s rounded belly."

I recognized it immediately. It was my son’s favorite toy, the first model he’d ever built with James.

Even after I bought him better, more expensive toys, he clung to that little plane every night … because it smelled like his father.

Now, the father he loved most was giving that precious toy to someone else’s child.

I couldn’t hold it anymore. I rushed forward, my voice breaking in pain, “James! Our son is dead and you’re already doing this? How could you?!”

The air around James grew cold instantly. Then, without warning, he slapped me across the face. “Evelyn, still bringing up his death? Are you addicted to acting?”

I couldn’t move fast enough to avoid it, so my head hit the corner of a table and warm blood trickled down.

And my son’s most cherished toy plane was heartlessly crushed under James’s heel.

“It’s just a toy! What’s wrong with giving it to his sister? Is this how you raise a kid?”

“You couldn’t even grow a rose properly and left a mess. Now, you and your little brat think you can stand up to me?!”

As I looked at his disgusting face, all I could think of was the unimaginable pain my son had endured before his death. I wanted to drag this man to our son’s grave, make him kneel and force him to apologize!

But then, my son’s comforting words from that afternoon echoed in my ears.

“Mommy, don’t cry. Don’t blame Daddy. It’s Noah’s fault. Noah can take it!”

“But Daddy was kind of mean. I fell and he didn’t help me. He even yelled at me. If he does it again, I won’t talk to him!”

“Mommy, next time, let’s both ignore Daddy, okay?”

I closed my eyes, swallowed the agony in my chest and spoke slowly, forcing the words out.

"You’re right. I’ve failed as a mother. I don’t deserve to be part of your Laurent Family. Sign the divorce papers. This is over, James. We’re done!”

James looked at me, a cruel smirk on his lips.

"You want me to sign the divorce papers? Fine! Get on your knees, apologize to Greta and admit you ruined everything! You spoiled that kid, let him wreck her garden and destroyed the party!”

“When she’s happy, I’ll sign it.”

At the sound of his words, Greta straightened up and shot me a mocking look, her eyes full of contempt.

The others perked up, their greedy eyes fixed on me, as some of them began placing bets.

"I’ll bet 100 bucks she won’t kneel. She actually thought she could challenge Greta? She’s completely lost it."

"She’s probably going to cry and beg James to forgive her. That fake-dead kid might show up too and both of them are begging together."

Without a second thought, I forced myself up and slammed my forehead to the floor, desperate to show my submission. "I’m sorry! I was wrong!"

The broken toy plane jabbed into my forehead and blood spilled out, but I felt nothing … numb to the world around me. I continued to kneel and bow, again and again, but I never reached the end.

Every time I moved forward, Greta laughed cruelly and took a step back, as if she were playing with a dog, forcing me to crawl in endless circles.

The crowd’s tone around me slowly changed from entertained to worried.

"James, Greta, maybe it’s enough? She’s bleeding heavily. What if something terrible happens to her?"

"Yeah, look at her lips … she’s so pale. What if she dies here?"

"Honestly, if she’s leaving, now’s the perfect time. James, it’s time you give Greta her rightful title."

I stopped and glanced back. Blood from my forehead had left a long, shocking streak.

I wasn't planning to stop. Just as I was about to kneel once more …

James kicked me down mercilessly and threw the signed divorce papers at me.

"Enough! I signed it! Stop pretending! You’re pathetic. Do you really think I wouldn’t divorce you?"

"Take your kid and leave! But remember, if you walk out that door, your son won’t see a penny from me!"

"Don’t even think I’ll ever acknowledge you two again!"

I had lost so much blood that standing felt like an impossible task. But I forced myself to rise, grabbing the divorce papers with trembling hands.

James glared at me, his gaze burning into me. I turned to the last page, checked the signature and allowed myself a bitter smile.

"Fine. I’ll go pack my son’s things and take him with me."

I turned and walked into my son’s room, feeling the weight of the moment.

As soon as the door closed, the chaos outside went quiet. I leaned against the door and my vision blurred with tears.

My son’s small blanket was still rumpled. The fairy tale book we didn’t finish reading last night was still on the bedside table.

It felt like any moment, he would jump out of the wardrobe pretending to be a ghost to scare me.

I wiped away my tears and grabbed a suitcase from the wardrobe to pack my son's things.

His clothes, toys, books and the little crafts he made in kindergarten … I packed them one by one, laughing and crying. Then I found a small drift bottle.

Inside was a yellowed piece of paper. I opened it and froze. It was an IOU note between James and our son.

When our son was three and super clingy, he insisted on sleeping with me every night. James, frustrated, would sneak in halfway through the night, carry me back to our room and mutter.

"This is ridiculous. I gave birth to a jealous little rival!"

"Honey, I miss you too. Can't you spend more time with me?"

But before he could go far, our chubby little boy would wake up, chase after him and hit him with his little fists, yelling that he was “stealing mommy.”

Then they had no choice but to make a deal: one night each. If either of them wanted an extra night, they had to write an IOU.

James had plenty of tricks to win our son over and eventually, he had a pile of IOUs.

Our son kept asking for them back, but James always came up with some excuse to avoid it.

After Greta returned from abroad, I started sleeping with our son more often. I thought he'd be happy, but instead, he became quieter with each passing day.