I still remember how happy Daryl was the night our child was born. He kissed our son’s cheek and swore through tears:
As long as the child is healthy and happy, nothing else matters.
But everything changed when Jennie accused me of using plush toys with toxic materials, claiming they caused Keri's acute leukemia.
Daryl began to resent me—and his son, too.
At just five years old, our child was sent to a strict, elite boarding school.
No holidays, no toys, no scrapes or mother's gentle hugs—only cold rules and endless routines far beyond his age.
Trying not to disappoint his father, our son gave up his game console and toys, studying late into the night, always wearing a serious expression far too mature for his years.
Keri’s birthday was held on a cruise ship. Our boys had simply wanted to give their father a handmade birthday gift—but never got the chance.
Seeing the bitterness in my smile, Daryl paused, as if he wanted to speak—then his phone rang.
It was Keri’s sweet voice when I answered.
“Daddy, why aren't you home yet? Keri bought you a cake and made a birthday gift.”
Daryl's face softened, and he replied gently, “Okay, Daddy will be home soon and bring you your favorite Barbie doll.”
So, he did have a tender side after all.
He remembered her preferences and didn’t think she was a burden.
But once the call ended, he turned back to me with that same irritated tone.
“Keri’s bone marrow transplant is the day after tomorrow. Bring your son here—if not, don’t blame me for what happens!”
With that threat, he rushed off. The car's roar outside echoed his urgency.
I wiped away my tears and retrieved the airplane model and clay figurine from the trash.
They were handmade by my children. Some might see them as junk, but to me, they’re priceless.
The next morning, the children's bodies were sent for cremation.
I clung to them the entire way, pressing my face to their cold skin, trying to absorb what little warmth and memory remained.
They went in as two small bodies—what came out were two cold, weightless urns.
Sitting outside the funeral home, Mrs. Carson clutched her phone, her brow furrowed.
She had called Daryl over thirty times, begging him to attend. He never answered. Instead, he called me.
His voice was hoarse, as though he'd cried—but it didn’t hide the fury.
“Darla, you’re impossible! What else do you do all day but complain? You can’t just walk away like this!”
“Tell my mom to stop bothering me. I’m at Keri’s dog’s funeral. I don’t have time for your drama!”
Then he hung up—just like that.
No wonder so few people came to the children's funeral.
They were all at a dog’s funeral.
In Daryl’s eyes, his child’s death meant less than Jennie’s pet.
Mrs. Carson was so shaken with rage, she nearly collapsed outside the funeral home.
I forced a numb smile.
“It’s fine if he doesn’t come. I already booked a flight to Beijing today.”
“Auntie, I just have one last request: please let me take my children’s ashes. The memories here are too cruel. I can’t leave them behind.”
With tears, Mrs. Carson agreed.
By noon, I returned home with the urns.
The moment I stepped inside, I saw Daryl and Jennie whispering on the couch.
Pretending not to notice, I picked up the suitcase I’d packed the night before, and quietly left the villa.
Daryl stood up and blocked me. "Where are you going with your packed bags?"
Then, as if something had occurred to him, he narrowed his eyes. "Darla, you're not planning to run off with your son, are you? Running with the ball at your age? Stop reading those trashy novels."
"Let me remind you—tomorrow is Keri's bone marrow transplant. If your son doesn't show up, I’ll make both of you pay!"
I clutched the urn tighter in my arms and said coldly, "Don’t worry. No one will bother you again."
Satisfied with my answer, Daryl glanced at the urn and sneered.
"You went to the funeral home with me and even brought back a souvenir. Doesn’t that feel unlucky? Let me tell you—no matter how much you and the kid grovel, my heart belongs only to Jennie and her daughter."
Then he carried Jennie like a princess, pressed her onto the sofa, and shamelessly indulged himself in broad daylight, ignoring everything around him.
I shut the door to block out the filthy sounds, got in the car with the urn in my arms.
Inside, I broke the SIM card and blocked all contacts.
I touched the urn gently. “Baby, from now on, we’re finally free.”
...
At dawn the next day, Daryl waited at the operating room door.
He kept checking his watch, anxiety growing in his eyes. Then a bodyguard hurried over, speaking with hesitation.
“Mr. Carson, Madam is gone. And the old lady said—the young master died on the table three days ago.”
