Dad walked over right on cue with a plate of cut fruit. Half of it was imported cherries I could never bring myself to buy.
The caption read:
"Dad and Mom say I'll always be eighteen in their eyes~ Always the little princess of the family~"
And under that help-seeking post, a new reply appeared:
"This method really works. I've already moved in with my daughter. That annoying neighbor didn't even notice!"
I turned my head, my gaze landing on my home—turned into a warzone from caring for the baby, stuff scattered everywhere.
My heart immediately soured.
I thought of last time, when I snagged a box of cherries from a livestream flash sale and brought them to Mom and Dad. I hadn't even tasted a single one myself.
But before I could get through the door, they threw me out along with the box.
"What's the point of buying something that expensive? You might as well give me cash. This is all just capitalism's trick. Aren't these the same cherries that grew back in our hometown?"
That day I was eight months pregnant. I squatted on the ground, picking up the cherries one by one, and cried until my eyes stayed swollen for three days.
But now, toward Vivian, they'd completely changed their tune.