Their voices carried on the wind, low with worry and pity.
“That old woman is truly tragic. Apparently, there was a malfunction in the factory machinery and both her hands were crushed. Her daughter was kneeling and begging the hospital director. Her head bleeding from the ground, before they managed to save her life.”
“Who would've thought she'd jump off the building just a few days later?”
“Sigh, she lost both her arms. No one could endure such a blow.”
“And they say she was very kind. She took in over 500 stray cats while she was alive. Guess she tried to take her own life just so her daughter wouldn't be burdened.”
My breath hitched. Heart pounding, I pushed through the crowd.
“Mom!”
I shouted hoarsely, rushing forward to embrace my mother. Her sleeves were empty and she lay motionless in a pool of blood, as still as if she were asleep.
The blood beneath her body was flowing more and more.
“Please, please save my mother! Call a doctor!”
My cries tore through the air as I hugged her chilled body, oblivious to the blood that soaked me, bowing my head to the ground before the onlookers, desperate for help.
People looked at me with sympathy. After what seemed like an eternity, a hand pulled me to my feet.
“Miss Barbara, you have my condolences.”
A doctor in a white coat offered a pained apology. “Your mother has already passed away...”
Watching the doctors rush around cleaning the scene, they covered my mother's face with a white sheet and carried her into the morgue.
On the day my mother died, an online frenzy was underway.
Cecilia used the video slandering my mother, quickly gained followers, breaking the million mark.
Aaron threw a lavish party to celebrate, inviting everyone in the company to attend and proudly posted the event on his social media.
“I knew my little girl could do it. Congratulations on becoming a million-followers. You'll climb even higher in the ranks now.”
I clenched my phone so tightly, feeling a piercing pain in my chest.
Below, Cecilia commented:
[Thank you, dear. If it weren't for you helping me, this little dummy wouldn't have reached a million followers anytime soon. Looking forward to my reward tonight.]
Cecilia was eating the blood-soaked buns made from my mother's flesh and still brazenly flaunting her success.
While my mother's body was still cold in the morgue, they toasted expensive champagne, basking in the glow of her death.
Why should they get to celebrate?
The comments under Aaron's post were flooded with congratulations—except for one starkly different reply:
[Aaron, do you have any shame left? Keeping a mistress is bad enough, but you're publicly posting disgusting things on your social media? Do you even remember you have a wife? Who was it who created the 'wife-obsessed husband' persona for you? Who was the unlucky one who married you.]
Within a minute, the comment was deleted.
Immediately after, Aaron posted another photo of a divorce agreement. My own signature stamp was prominently displayed on the page.
“Let certain people open their eyes and see clearly. I am now single. My young girlfriend is not a mistress and I will never let anyone question her status.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. It turned out the assistant was right all along.
Two months ago, while I was asleep, Aaron had quietly pressed my seal onto the divorce papers.
I sat outside the morgue all day into the night, before I finally asked the caretaker beside me, “My mother was fine. Why would she want to jump off the building? How could my mom do this? She was always so strong. Even losing both arms, she promised she'd keep living for my sake.”
“She made it through, she said she would never give up—so what could have happened that made her desperate enough to die?”
