The child refused my home-cooked meals. She wanted grease-soaked street food pumped full of additives. When I refused to buy that garbage for the sake of her health, she threw the milk and eggs I'd packed for her straight into the trash.
I never expected my concern for her health to be weaponized as *abuse*.
Seeing I hadn't responded, Jade sent three quick messages.
**【Forget it, everyone stop talking.】**
**【No matter how bad she is, she's still my mom. I was too worked up.】**
**【Mom, we're about to pick up the in-laws. For dinner, you really need to show off your skills. Let them see how good you are!】**
She thought a flimsy half-apology would fix everything.
She thought I would come crawling back to the kitchen to save her face.
No.
My fingers flew across the keyboard.
**【You can make the New Year's Eve dinner yourself. I'm already at the station.】**
I hit send.
Left the group chat.
Blocked Jade on WeChat.
Dragging my luggage out of the taxi at the bus station, a strange lightness settled over me. The cold winter air bit at my face, sharp and clean.
But for the first time in seven years—
I could breathe.
My phone rang. My husband.