When the last document was handed over, my juniors hugged me tightly, reluctant to let go, their warmth wrapping around me like a soft farewell.
But the warmth ended at the lab doors.
The moment I opened the villa gate, a chilling scene stopped me cold.
Floating silently in the pool was a soaked, lifeless Yorkshire terrier.
His once-fluffy fur drifted gently with the ripples, as though trying to wag one last time.
Greeting me. Saying goodbye.
I stood frozen, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.
Then came the voice, bright and cruel, from behind me.
“Who told you to bully Aunt Loren? This is your punishment!”
Abraham laughed, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
My chest constricted.
Molly.
The stray I rescued six years ago.
It took endless coaxing before Arthur begrudgingly agreed to keep him.
Over the years, Molly became family to me—my silent companion, my shadow, my comforter. In every way that mattered, he was my second child.
And now, he was gone. Drowned.
I stepped forward with trembling hands, reaching toward his tiny, still body. But the moment my fingers touched the cold water, I flinched and drew back.
Tears blurred my vision.
And then—for the first time—I raised my hand and struck my son.
The sound of the slap cracked through the still air.
Abraham clutched his cheek, stunned. His expression twisted, not in remorse, but in fury.
“I don’t want you to be my mother! Dad doesn’t like you either! So why are you still in our house?!”
With that, he turned and ran off, crying—but proud, chin held high.
Every word sliced through me like a blade.
No mother can hear such hatred from her own child and remain whole.
A buzzing filled my ears. My knees nearly gave out.
Still, I swallowed the grief and pain, and quietly buried Molly beneath the old tree he loved to nap under.
I placed his favorite rubber bone beside him, along with the chewed-up ball he always carried in his mouth.
It was as though he’d never existed.
Just like me.
Seven years of selfless care, devotion, and sacrifice—and in the end, I left no trace in this house.
Not in his heart.
Not in either of theirs.
As I finished covering the grave, a sharp breeze brushed past me, carrying with it a familiar scent—fresh mint.
I turned around.
Arthur stood there, arms crossed, face blank.
So alike, he and our son. The same cold detachment. The same pride. The same arrogance.