His Mistress Abused My Child

After two years of conducting research in Antarctica, I finally had the chance to video call my daughter.

"Mom, I miss you so much."

Her voice pulled at my heartstrings, and just as I was about to tell her when I'd be coming home, I noticed the bruises peeking from under her sleeve. No matter how hard I prodded, all she could say was, "I miss you."

After hanging up, I grew increasingly restless and couldn't resist calling my husband to ask about it. He sounded irritated: "She's always running around like a wild child. Scrapes and bruises are normal for kids. Why is she acting so pitiful?"

"You’re the one making a big deal out of nothing. You're spoiling her!"

But the next minute, I saw that my husband's adopted son had posted a new flashy video on social media. In the video, he and my husband were posing together, as close as father and son. In the background was a piano, battered and bent, the very piano I had gone to great lengths to ship across several countries last year as a birthday gift for my daughter!

These inconsistencies left me uneasy, and even more troubling was my husband's indifferent attitude.

---

The video made my anger almost impossible to control. Our daughter was hiding and crying in a storage room, while he, supposedly her father, found the time to show off with his adopted son?

Before leaving, Ulises promised me, with utter conviction, that he would take good care of Harper—is this how he keeps his promise?!

Harper's tearful "Mom, I miss you" echoed painfully in my mind, like a knife through my heart.

Our research team had made significant progress in Antarctica, and we were scheduled to return home next Tuesday. But after today's unsettling discoveries, waiting was no longer an option. I briskly booked a ticket for tonight.

I needed to see for myself what my daughter had been enduring at home while I was away!

The return journey seemed unbearably slow despite the long hours; once I landed, I immediately hailed a cab and reached home by five in the morning.

I expected the house to be silent at this hour. But as soon as I stepped inside, I heard noises coming from the kitchen. The housekeeper usually starts breakfast around seven to match the school schedule, so the meal is perfectly timed. Why was she starting early today?

Curious, I quietly made my way to the kitchen, hoping to ask the housekeeper about our family’s situation without waking Harper.

But upon entering the kitchen, the small figure washing and chopping vegetables was far from the housekeeper—it was my daughter, the one I've missed so dearly!

She stood on tiptoe, shoulders hunched, alarmingly thin, focusing solely on chopping vegetables without lifting her head. Two years ago, when I left, Harper was well-fed and plump. Now, her baby-faced innocence had vanished entirely!

Despite hearing footsteps, she didn't dare look up; even when the knife sliced her finger, she numbly continued her task, her hand bleeding steadily.

I finally couldn't hold back. I rushed forward, grabbed the vegetable bowl and tossed it aside, pulling her hand under cool water.

Harper was stunned, slowly raising her eyes to my face, and her eyes reddened instantly.

Outside the kitchen, the housekeeper's door was suddenly kicked open, and a middle-aged woman’s voice echoed with curses:

"You little brat, can't even make a meal without messing it up? Still daring to throw things around?"

"How dare you put on airs! You think you're something special…"

The rough, sharp voice sent shivers down Harper’s spine, and her breathing grew rapid and uneven, sweat beading on her pale face.

Seeing my daughter's sudden reaction, my heart sank. I quickly hugged her, whispering comfort:

"Harper, don't be afraid. Mom's here!"

The housekeeper stormed into the kitchen in her slippers, cursing, only to be stopped short by the presence of someone else. Instinctively, she shouted:

"You shameless little tramp, sneaking someone into this house? I'll skin you alive—"

I turned sharply, glaring coldly:

"Oh, really? Let's see whose skin you're going to peel!"

The kitchen light snapped on, and under the bright fluorescents, my face was unmistakably illuminated.

The housekeeper looked at me and hesitated for a moment. Yet she showed no sign of guilt or panic; instead, her eyes narrowed with displeasure:

"Ma'am, really, why are you home at this hour?"

Her words only fueled my anger:

"Do I need to inform you of my schedule?"

"Sylvia, do you remember your position? I hired you, not to boss around my daughter!"

"Am I giving you too much leeway? Who gave you the audacity to act high and mighty in my house?!"