He answered, then told me sternly:
“My mom wants us to bring Ethan over for dinner. They miss their grandson.”
“Get Ethan ready—we’re leaving soon.”
I nodded, giving a faint “Mm” from my throat.
Richard kept watching me closely. Even when I bathed Ethan and changed his clothes, he set a timer, checking every ten minutes and rushing me again and again.
He already had my phone—what else was he so afraid of?
After all, this was his own brother. Did he really have no compassion at all?
Even if he thought it was my brother, Mark, wasn’t that still his brother-in-law?
He was acting like he couldn’t wait for Mark to die.
Cold-blooded.
I shot him a displeased glance and told him to drive.
At the Millers’ house, his parents rushed out happily to greet Ethan.
Richard and I handed them the gifts we’d brought, and their smiles grew wide.
Every visit was the same—we always brought things, sometimes even money.
They were practical small-town folk, valuing what they could hold in their hands more than warmth or words. Over time, that became the unspoken rule between us.
Every visit meant gifts—or cash.