It was me—ruined by Benjamin.
The phone slipped from my hand, clattering to the ground, but the pain in my chest was far worse.
Fragments of memories echoed in my mind:
"Classmate, I don’t like this kind of joke."
"Classmate, please—I still have to take the art exam..."
"Classmate..."
The voice grew fainter, dissolving into silence, as if it were slipping away with the phone that lay shattered on the floor.
Then, a loud bang.
"Maxine, don’t... don’t!!"
When the phone was picked up again, the video resumed. A younger Benjamin appeared, his eyes red with desperation.
It hit me like a tidal wave. The murderer who couldn’t be identified, the justice that was never served—it had all been deliberate.
And because of that, my father had died, consumed by grief and anger.
I was left behind to pick up the pieces. My repeated efforts to salvage my life led to nothing more than a mediocre admission into a second-tier university. My body, so frail it could barely stand, and my knees, throbbing with pain after only a few steps, crushed whatever pride I had left.
I cried until I had no more tears to shed.
With trembling hands, I signed the agreement to consent to an abortion.
Moments later, a private message from Isabelle appeared.
[Amelia, Benjamin and I are just ordinary friends.]
Attached was a photo of Benjamin holding her close, his hand gently patting her shoulder.
Her messages kept coming:
[Amy, it’s all my fault for being so stupid. Otherwise, why would he spend late nights accompanying me?]
[Amy, you’re so beautiful. Why does he like me instead?]
I stared at her words, her taunts wrapped in faux innocence. My lips curved into a bitter smile.
[You’re just a stand-in. Can you ever compare to Maxine?]
She didn’t hesitate to respond:
[It doesn’t matter. We’re all family, after all. We can’t let outsiders take advantage, can we?]
Her words twisted my stomach into knots. I couldn’t stop the nausea from rising. I leaned over and vomited, the taste of bile lingering on my tongue.
Enough.
I drafted a divorce agreement.
When I finally returned home, the sun was at its peak.
Benjamin's mother had been waiting at home for a long time.
The moment I stepped inside, her sharp gaze landed on me. She wasted no time before scolding, "You actually have the nerve to sit around while my son works himself to the bone? He has stomach problems! How can you bear to let him suffer like this?"
Her tone was biting, as always. She had risen to wealth and status midway through her life, but her stinginess remained unchanged. Or maybe, she simply didn’t want me to have an easy life.
I lowered myself onto the couch, cradling my pregnant belly. "I’m pregnant. Does that make my life any easier?"
She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, please. That child isn’t just Benjamin’s responsibility. He works so hard; what’s wrong with you working harder, too?"
She moved toward the table, dividing the neatly arranged dishes into two portions. The organic vegetables she prided herself on went onto one plate, while the blemished ones—the ones with wormholes—were tossed onto another.
She shoved the cheaper plate toward me. "Amelia, you eat this. As for this one, prepare it and cook it properly for Benjamin. He needs good nutrition to keep earning money."
Then she settled into the sofa, the TV remote in hand, but her eyes never left me, quietly scrutinizing my every move.
"We aren’t an ordinary family, you know," she continued, her voice dripping with superiority. "Living in this big flat costs money. Hiring a nanny isn’t free either. You don’t work, so why should you be sitting around doing nothing?"
Her words stung, but I knew better than to expect sympathy from her. She only cared for her son, never for me.
I snapped, grabbing the plate of vegetables she’d thrown at me and flinging it back at her. "He’s your son, not mine!"
She shrieked as the plate clattered to the ground, half-sitting on the floor, clutching her arm dramatically. Then, as if on cue, she started wailing and rolling around.
I glanced toward the door—Benjamin was home.
His mother always loved putting on a show for him.
Benjamin stepped in, his brows furrowed in displeasure. "Amelia, what are you doing? She’s also your mother."
I felt a bitter laugh rise in my throat. "She is not my mother," I said coldly. "My mother would actually care about me."
Benjamin didn’t respond. He just stood there, letting his mother rant and insult me.
Then he looked at my belly, his expression hardening. "Amelia, this is the child you wanted. I don’t care if you feel sorry for yourself, but at least feel sorry for it."
I stared at him, my chest tightening with anger and disgust. The absurdity of it all made me laugh bitterly.
"This child?" I said, my voice trembling with rage. "This is the child your mother wanted. She’s the one who swapped out the contraceptive pills."
