My mother treated him like her own son, staying up all night whenever he fell ill.
My mother always said, "Luther grew up without parents since he was a child. If we treat him well, maybe we can make up for the love he never had."
However, even after she died saving him by being struck by a car in his place, he still did not see my mother as family.
The moment Stella said, "It’s my birthday, I want to have my party here," he trampled on my mother’s last shred of dignity without hesitation.
He coldly pushed me aside and I naïvely thought he was just leaving me to handle other matters.
When I finally rushed back to the ancestral home, what awaited me was a scene so horrific it was beyond words.
I took my mother’s urn in my hands, my gaze hollow as I looked at Nina. "Thank you, Nina."
After that, like a soulless puppet, I resigned from the company.
The home that was once filled with warmth now felt unbearably cold.
Every corner carried traces of my mother and her presence lingered in the air. But those once-comforting memories had turned into blades, cutting deep with every touch.
I stared blankly at my mother’s urn, my vision blurring as silent tears welled up.