“Ethan Brooks, you’re truly cruel—even to your own mother. That’s why you kicked me away like trash when I was hurt.”
She glared out at the city lights. “I don’t believe you’ll keep hiding. Just wait—I’ll be harsher than you. When I find you, I’ll break your leg. Let’s see how you like it.”
I stood behind her, sighing at her unyielding back.
Was this lingering affection—or a cursed bond reigniting?
I remembered five years ago, when she had nearly died saving me from being hit by a car. Even before her wounds had healed, she came to me, but I slammed the door in her face.
She had cried outside, begging me not to leave her, promising she wouldn’t drag me down.
I hired a woman to stage an act with me, taunting her: “You’re crippled, what courage do you have to say you won’t be a burden?”
She clung to my leg, refusing to leave, until I kicked her away and she fainted.
My chest clenched painfully as I watched her carried into the ambulance. That was the last time I saw her alive. I only wanted her to survive, even if she hated me.
But now, not finding me, she turned her hatred onto my mother.
The next day, she brought my mother—fresh from resuscitation—to my home.