Milo once told me that he wanted to go sailing too. He saw it in a cartoon and said he wanted to glide over the ocean like he was flying. He even picked out what he’d wear—his “pirate socks,” he called them, the ones with little skulls on the toes.
Adrian laughed at him back then and shook his head. He said it was dangerous. Said a weak child like Milo would get swept right off the rope. Said the wind would knock him away.
But now Noah gets to go parasailing.
And my son doesn’t even get a birthday.
I remained standing near the hallway until I heard the sharp electronic beep of the front gate. Moments later, the door opened. Voices entered. Footsteps echoed.
The staff ushered them inside as if welcoming royalty.
Adrian’s parents.
I stayed where I was as they came in. Not a single smile touched their faces.
His mother barely spared me a glance before curling her lip in distaste.
“So where is your sickly little boy?” she asked coolly. “Already dead—or barely clinging on?”
My lips parted in shock.
But before I could speak, his father waved the topic away.
“That’s irrelevant. How’s Noah doing? We heard Elise might be pregnant again. Is that true?”
I stood frozen. Silent. Bracing myself so I wouldn’t shatter.
“She’s a blessing to my son,” his mother continued. “Always graceful. Never dramatic. So gentle and well-mannered. Very different from some women.”
I dropped my eyes.
Then his father added casually, “Go check on the kitchen. But first, bring us tea. Also, inform Adrian that we expect him next week for our anniversary. You may come along if you wish. Bring that weak child of yours if he’s still alive.”
My fingers dug into the fabric of my skirt.
Still, I nodded. “Of course.”
I went to the kitchen. Told the chef they preferred jasmine. Prepared the tray myself and carried it out as though I had nothing left to protect.
My smile stayed smooth. Carefully set. Like porcelain.
Inside, though, I was falling apart.
As I leaned forward to place the cups down, my hand slipped. One teacup shattered loudly against the floor, breaking into cruel, scattered shards.
His mother gasped, then shot me a sharp glare.
“You’ve always been hopelessly clumsy,” she snapped. “Honestly, girl—after all these years, you still can’t even serve tea properly?”
I stared at the broken porcelain for a moment, then straightened slowly.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
Not for the tea.
For the woman I used to be.
The girl who begged for their approval.
The girl who thought love had to be earned.
The girl who believed she belonged at their table.
That girl is gone now.
Just like my son.
---
They didn’t stay for lunch.
Both of Adrian’s parents stood with thin expressions of irritation, as though my existence itself had offended them.
His mother set her cup down with a delicate clink, her mouth tightening.
“This is bitter,” she muttered. “Even the simplest things you ruin. Bitter tea… bitter life.”
She adjusted her gloves near the doorway—slow, precise motions. Then she turned back to me, her voice controlled and icy.
“I’ll make sure Adrian hears about your little accident. You’re unraveling, dear. Maybe this time he’ll finally realize his mistake and leave you for good. I’ve warned him for years—you were never meant to be part of our world. You’ve never been worth the trouble.”
I said nothing.
I didn’t bow.
I didn’t argue.
I only held onto the edge of the table, my fingers curled tight beneath it, as though gripping something solid might lessen the sting of her words.
She turned away without waiting for a response.
No farewell.
No courtesy.
The front door opened… then shut.
A few moments later, tires hissed softly against the driveway as their car disappeared. And then the silence returned—deep, hollow, familiar. The kind of quiet that lived in every corner of that glass mansion.
I exhaled slowly and turned toward the maid.
“There’s no need to prepare lunch,” I said in a low voice. “They’ve already left.”
She nodded without speaking.
I went upstairs one step at a time.
My body felt heavy. Detached. As though it no longer fully belonged to me.
Halfway up the staircase, voices drifted up from the kitchen below—whispers, hushed and quick.
“She didn’t even cry when they left,” one murmured.
“I think that little boy… Milo—he’s already gone. I saw the urn in her room.”
“Poor thing. Mr. Adrian only ever talks about Noah now.”
“He showers Elise with gifts. He hasn’t even visited Milo’s grave. I doubt he even knows where it is.”
“Even if he did… I don’t think he’d care. Milo was too gentle. Too soft. That kind of child never survives in their world.”
“She used to be the lady of the house,” another whispered. “Now she’s just… existing.”
I kept walking.
I didn’t stop.
I didn’t scold them.
I didn’t defend myself.
Maybe none of them were entirely wrong.
I reached my room and closed the door behind me.
Then my phone rang.
Adrian.
The screen lit up with his name as it rang once… then twice.
I stared at it until the sound stopped.
No voicemail followed.
No message.
I stood there for a long moment, letting the quiet settle over me again.
Then I changed my clothes.
I chose the soft blue dress Milo loved—the one with tiny white clouds scattered across it. He used to say it looked like the sky. Said it made me look like a storybook mother—the safe kind. The happy kind.
I lifted his urn.
Cradled it in both arms as if I were holding him again. The porcelain was warm from the sunlight slipping through the curtains.
I left the house without telling anyone.
And I went to Ocean Park.
The place Milo had begged me to take him every year for his birthday.
“Just once, Mama,” he used to plead. “I just wanna see the dolphins. I’ll behave, I promise.”
But Adrian always refused.
Said the sun was too harsh.
Said the crowd was dangerous.
Said it was too risky for a fragile child.
So we never went.
Until now.
I bought one ticket.
But I paid for two seats.
One for me.
One for him.
We watched the dolphin show together. I lit a small candle near the railing and shielded it from the wind as the flame trembled. I talked to him quietly—told him how proud I was, how much I missed him. I even laughed once.
The sound startled me.
People nearby probably thought I was insane—sitting alone, whispering to a tiny pink urn like it could answer me.
I didn’t care.
That day wasn’t for them.
It was for Milo.
I looked up at the sky and watched sunlight break through drifting clouds.
“Happy birthday, my love,” I whispered, my voice barely steady.
Tears slipped down my face, but I wiped them away.
Not today.
Today was his.
All his.
