I am a real estate agent.

My mom, Irma Bond, comes to me privately and asks me to sell her apartment.

She explains, "Your dad is having trouble with his business. I want to give him a little assistance."

This apartment was left to her by my grandmother, Anita Crosby. It was meant to be a safe haven just for her. For my dad, she is selling her own refuge at a low price.

Soon, a buyer contacts me.

The woman says to me, "Hi. Could you reserve the apartment for me first? I'll have my partner give it to me as a birthday gift next week."

The moment I catch a glimpse of her profile photo featuring her and her partner, I freeze.

It's my dad!

I nod with a smile as I reply, "Of course. I look forward to seeing him soon."

"Could you leave a contact number and details? I'll reserve the apartment for you," I said, repeatedly confirming the buyer's information with Carla Heath.

It wasn't until I saw the information Carla had filled out—where the buyer's name and social security number matched Dad's—that I finally gave up all doubt.

It really was Dad.

Carla handed me the documents and said with a smile, "Jody, I hope you find a boyfriend who loves you just as much someday. Next week is my 35th birthday, and my boyfriend said he could give me anything I want.

"This little apartment might be a bit old, but it's right in the city center. After I renovate it, it'll be just perfect for the two of us."

Carla's "kind" words pierced my heart like a knife.

The safe haven Grandma had left for Mom before she died had become a gift from Dad to his mistress.

Forcing myself to hold back the discomfort, I tentatively asked, "What if your boyfriend can't come up with that much money? I don't mean anything by it—it's just that buying an apartment is no small amount. It'd be bad if something went wrong."

But Carla laughed as if I'd told the most ridiculous joke.

"If he can't even come up with two million dollars to buy an apartment, why would I even be with him? Jody, I don't mind telling you this, but my boyfriend's company has made a ton of money from several projects recently."

She then waved the Van Cleef and Arpels bracelet on her wrist and boasted, "See this? He just gave this to me last weekend like it was nothing."

I stared at the bracelet, the hatred inside me nearly devouring me whole.

"Your boyfriend is so romantic," I said, my voice tight. "For my mom's birthday, my dad gave her a thermal mug from a supermarket promotion."

Carla raised an eyebrow smugly. "A man has to know which woman is worth his money."

She stroked her new bracelet. "Last week, I casually mentioned wanting to go to a fine dining place, and he immediately booked a restaurant that costs two thousand dollars per person. Has your mom ever been to a place like that?"

My stomach churned.

I thought of Mom's birthday last month. Dad said he was busy with work and told her to just cook herself instant noodles.

I took a deep breath and swallowed the accusations rising in my throat.

"How thoughtful of your boyfriend," I replied, forcing a professional smile. "In that case, we'll sign the contract next week. I'll have the documents ready ahead of time."

Carla flipped her hair smugly.

Just then, her phone buzzed with a message notification.

She glanced down and immediately smirked.

"Oh my, he's urging me to go for a test drive," she said, deliberately turning the screen toward me. "He insists on getting me a Porsche—says my old car isn't good enough for me."

In the chat window, Dad's profile picture was labeled "Honey", and the last message was a location pin for a car dealership.

I dug my fingernails into my palms. Yesterday, Mom asked Dad to take her to get her scooter repaired, but he said he had to see a client.

Carla sashayed away, her perfume lingering in the air.

Before she left, I added her on Instagram under the pretense of making future communications easier.

The same night, Carla posted an update on her Instagram.

"Test drive surprise! My boyfriend said white suits my new dress."

The photo showed Dad leaning against the car door, smiling, with a car dealership in the background.

I scrolled further down.

Last Wednesday, there was a post captioned, "Midnight snack."

Dad was wearing an apron, cooking a lavish seafood feast in a luxuriously decorated kitchen.

When Mom's arthritis flared up, and she couldn't get out of bed to cook, he told her to make do with instant noodles.

Last Sunday, she posted a photo of luxury shopping bags piled all over the sofa, with the caption, "Unboxing gifts."

Around the same time, the family ledger showed that Dad had refused to buy Mom a new refrigerator.

In every photo, Dad looked doting and affectionate. It was a stark contrast to the frowning, worried version of him at home who always said, "Business is tough."

I took screenshots of every single post as evidence.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed—it was Dad calling.

"Jody, how's the progress on the apartment?" He sounded weary. "Your mom's been nagging a lot lately. Try to talk some sense into her."

I stared at the photos on my feed—him with his arms around Carla, test-driving the car.

"Dad, what time are you coming home today?" I asked softly. "Mom made beef stew."

He paused for a moment. "Sorry, I can't make it home for dinner. I have to entertain a client." He sighed. "It's not easy to run a business."

Then, he hung up.

I pulled up Mom's latest post.

In the photo, she stood in front of their old, broken refrigerator. The caption read, "It suddenly stopped working, and the meat is starting to smell. Does anyone have any quick fixes?"

The first comment in the thread was Dad's reply, "Don't let the meat go to waste. Just cook it thoroughly, and it'll still be edible."

I saved all the screenshots, then turned off my phone.

On the day of the contract signing next week, I'd be handing him a "birthday gift" he'd never forget.

I pushed open the door and saw Mom crouching in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor.

The water wrung from the rag was murky with dish soap foam, and her fingers were red from the cold. The cuffs of her sleeves still had stains from this morning's cooking.

"Mom, stop scrubbing. Is the fridge fixed yet?" I asked hoarsely.

She looked up and forced a smile. "Your dad said to hold on a little longer. Once business picks up, we'll get a new one."

I stared at her cracked fingernails, my heart clenching as if someone had it in a vise.

Last year, when Dad's rheumatism acted up, she grated fresh ginger and turmeric by hand for his poultice and ripped half her fingernail off doing it.

Yet Dad only said, "You women are just too delicate."

And Mom actually started to wonder if maybe she really was too delicate, like he said.

"How did the sales go?" Mom stood up, bracing her lower back. "Your dad coughed half the night. I need to scrape together the money f—"

"Why don't you take a look at this first?" I interrupted her and handed over my phone.

She took it with a confused look and began scrolling.

Carla's Instagram posts unfolded before her eyes one by one—Dad leaning against the car door while smiling, Dad wearing an apron and cooking seafood.

The one that stung the most was the latest.

"My boyfriend said the bracelet was too plain for my new dress."

The photo showed a Van Cleef and Arpels counter, with a salesperson packaging a matching necklace.

"I've already checked the prices. The cheapest one costs 11 thousand dollars," I said coldly from the side.

"T-This is?" Mom's fingers were trembling.

"This is the client who came to see the apartment today. And guess what? The person buying it for her is Dad," I explained to Mom while watching her reaction closely.

"Dad complains about being broke to us every day. But in reality, he's been spending all his money on someone else. He said he was meeting with a client yesterday, but he was actually picking out a necklace for her."

Mom staggered and grabbed the kitchen counter, nearly falling to the ground.

"No, that's impossible," she said, her lips quivering. "Your dad said money was tight lately. He even held back on my medical insurance."

"Tight?" I pulled up screenshots of the bank statements and pointed at the transfer records he made to Carla. "In three months, he wired her 800 thousand dollars, with the memos all reading 'wellness investment.'"

Mom suddenly rushed into the bedroom and came back with a tin box stuffed with yellowed receipts for Dad's rheumatism therapy fees and health supplements.

On each one, her elegant handwriting noted, "Norman's health is the top priority."

In hindsight, it was the cruelest irony.

At the very bottom was a copy of Grandma's will.

"I bequeath the apartment to my daughter, Irma Bond, as a place for her to settle and call home."

Mom looked at the receipts, then at the will, and tears suddenly streamed down her face.

"H-How could he do this to me? It's bad enough he stole my money and my life, but now he wants to take away my last safety net?" She choked on her sobs as she stroked the will. "Before your grandma passed, she kept telling me this apartment is my safe haven."

I picked up one of the receipts.

Last week, Dad had taken five thousand dollars under the pretense of buying health supplements. Around the same time, Carla posted a photo of her new designer bag on Instagram.

"Mom, look closely." I held up my phone next to the receipt. "His so-called supplements are hanging on someone else's arm."

She suddenly grabbed my phone and started scrolling frantically.

Every one of Carla's bragging photos—Dad in an apron cooking seafood, Dad picking out jewelry, Dad with his arm around her test-driving a new car—felt like a slap in the face.

"When I was in the hospital for surgery last year…" Mom stared at Dad, who was smiling dotingly in the photos. "He said the hospital had bad reception. Turns out he was busy playing chef for someone else."

Tears splashed onto the screen.

Suddenly, she laughed.

"No wonder he always complained about my cooking." She grabbed the stack of receipts and hurled them against the wall. "How dare he use the money I nearly killed myself for to support some little slut?"

As the papers fluttered through the air, she slowly rose to her full height.

"Jody, I'm coming with you to sign that contract next week," she said, wiping away her tears.

The next day, I went to Dad's company under the pretext of delivering documents, hoping to gather more evidence. However, I was stopped at the door.

"Do you have an appointment?" the new receptionist asked without even looking up.

"I'm here for Norman Tuttle," I replied, waving the thermal container in my hand. "I'm bringing him lunch."

The receptionist let out a scornful laugh. Then, she shot me a glance and said mockingly, "Mrs. Tuttle just brought him lunch. In fact, she's still with him in the office right now.

"Young lady, for someone your age, you sure are manipulative. Trying to take the easy way out, are we?"

I was completely stunned.

Mrs. Tuttle? But Mom was at home.

Before I could react, the elevator dinged open. Carla stepped out carrying a Hermes bag, with several employees flocking around her calling her "Mrs. Tuttle".

When she saw me, she froze in her tracks.

"What are you doing here?" She looked me up and down, taking in my work clothes. "I told you I'm going to buy the apartment, and I will buy it! Showing up at the company won't change anything!"

The receptionist rushed to curry favor. "Mrs. Tuttle, she says she's here to bring Mr. Tuttle lunch."

Carla paused for a moment, then suddenly smiled as if something had dawned on her.

She lightly stroked her necklace and said smugly, "Jody, give it up. There's nothing Norman hates more than a clingy woman."

She stepped closer, her perfume wafting over me. "Not that you're even fit to shine his shoes."

Laughter rippled around us.

I gripped the thermal container tightly. "You've misunderstood. I'm—"

"You're what?" Carla cut me off. "Jealous that he's buying me an apartment? You're just some gold digger who found out Norman is rich and came running to steal him from me. Who do you think you're fooling?"

An employee chimed in obsequiously, "Everyone knows how much Mr. Tuttle dotes on his wife. Why, just last week, he rented out an entire restaurant for her birthday."

I stared at the diamond watch on Carla's wrist. It was identical to the counterfeit one Dad gave Mom last year.

"You hear that?" She flicked the name tag on my chest. "You could sell houses till you drop and still never afford one diamond off my watch."

Before I could respond, Carla suddenly snatched my phone.

"Let me see." She swiped open my photo gallery. "How many pictures of Norman have you secretly taken?"

I lunged and snatched it back. "Give that back!"

She stumbled back dramatically. "Security! This lunatic is about to get violent!"

A man in uniform pressed down on my shoulder.

Carla toyed with her car keys, the Porsche emblem glaringly bright.

"That's the tragedy of being poor. All you have left is fantasizing about another woman's husband," she said with a sigh. "

Outside the glass door, Dad's assistant walked by carrying documents and bowed to Carla.

"Mrs. Tuttle, Mr. Tuttle wants you to pick the color for your new car."

I was shoved and pushed out through the revolving door.

Under the scorching sun, I unlocked my phone.

Carla had just updated her Instagram.

"I was harassed by some little slut, so my boyfriend said he'll buy me an even more expensive car to calm my nerves."

The photo showed a chat log from Dad. "Oh, babe, I'm sorry you had to go through that. I'll take you to a Rolls-Royce dealership tomorrow."

Meanwhile, in the family group chat, Mom asked, "Norman, the fridge is completely broken. Can you transfer 500 dollars to get it repaired?"

Dad didn't reply at all.

The next second, a text message from Carla came through.

"The contract signing location has changed. It's now at Tuttle Corporation's mid-year conference. I want to give my boyfriend a surprise. I bet you're about to die with jealousy right now, you little slut.

"But it won't do you any good. I'll be receiving my gift under everyone's watchful eyes, while you can only stare longingly from the audience."

Instead of feeling angry at this message, I felt a flicker of excitement.

The stage was big enough, the audience was plenty, and the gift I'd prepared was huge.