The Mother They Used My Daughter's Betrayal

I nodded, my expression unreadable.

"Fine. I'll pay."

I pulled out my phone and scanned the QR code. Twenty thousand dollars, transferred to my son-in-law.

Jonathan checked his screen. The moment the notification chimed, his scowl vanished, replaced by a smug, triumphant grin.

Aria let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, immediately hooking her arm through mine. Her voice dripped with sudden, sickly sweetness.

"See, Mom? That's more like it! Let's just put this unpleasantness behind us. From now on, just be more careful, okay? Don't be so impulsive. It really ruins the family harmony."

I sidestepped, letting her hand drop.

I didn't trust myself to speak.

Just then, Aria's phone rang. She answered, and her mother-in-law's voice blared from the speaker.

"Aria, darling, it's freezing over here! Several of my friends have flown down to Sanya for the winter. I want to go too."

Without a second's hesitation, my daughter beamed. "Mom, if you want to go, then go! Jonathan and I will put in for leave right now. We'll bring Lily along to keep you company. We can make a whole vacation out of it!"

"Oh, that sounds wonderful! It's about time you enjoyed some blessings."

I stood there, stunned, watching my daughter eagerly arrange her schedule.

Last month, my back pain was so severe I couldn't get out of bed. I had begged Aria to take a single afternoon off to drive me to the hospital.

Her response had been sharp and impatient.

"Mom, I'm swamped at work. I can't just take leave whenever you want. Do you have any idea how much trouble it causes me to miss even half a day?"

"It's just back pain from being tired. Lie down more and you'll be fine. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill."

In her eyes, my agony—pain so intense I felt like I was dying—wasn't worth a few hours of her time. Yet her mother-in-law mentioned a whim to travel, and Aria was ready to drop everything for days?

Watching her fawn over the woman on the phone, a cold realization settled in my chest. I turned and walked back to my room.

It wasn't that my daughter couldn't take leave.

She wouldn't take leave for me.

It wasn't that she didn't know how to be filial.

She just didn't think I was the mother who deserved it.

I shut the door, blocking out the sound of the family of three excitedly planning their tropical getaway.

I didn't sleep a wink that night.

At eight the next morning, they set off. They slipped out like thieves, moving quietly as if terrified I might wake up and beg to tag along.

Once the front door clicked shut, I walked out and surveyed the disaster zone they'd left behind. Dirty bowls and grease-stained plates piled high on the dining table. Toys and crinkled snack wrappers littered the floor.

For three years, I had cleaned up messes like this every single day. I had spun like a top that never knew fatigue, erasing their filth so they could live in comfort.

This time, I didn't move.

I stepped over a discarded toy, walked into the kitchen, and made myself a bowl of noodles. Usually, I ate their leftovers—whatever scraps remained after they'd had their fill.

This was the first time in three years I cooked only for myself in this house.

I cracked two eggs into the boiling water—a luxury I usually denied myself. I sat down and ate the entire bowl slowly, savoring every bite.

Then I dialed a number I hadn't called in a long time.

"I need you to handle something for me."

After giving my instructions, I packed a small bag.

I left the mess. I left the apartment. I went back to my hometown in the countryside.

For three days, I lived in peace. I cooked what I wanted, slept when I wanted, and answered to no one. The silence was healing.

On the fourth day, my phone rang.

Aria. Her voice was trembling, thick with panic and tears.

"Mom! Where did you go? Something terrible has happened at home!"