Christine was in no state to go to the hospital. Nor could she bear the thought of returning to that house.
Aimless, she drifted until she found herself outside the cafe. She unlocked the door, stepped behind the counter, and brewed a strong, bitter black coffee. She drank it down in one go—the taste so sharp it made her tongue tremble.
Up the wooden stairs she climbed, to her mother’s old room on the second floor. Curling up on the narrow bed was almost like being held. She lay there, forcing sleep, but her eyes stayed open until dawn.
The door chime rang. The cafe’s first customer had arrived.
She rose to help—and came face-to-face with Betty. Instinctively, Christine tried to retreat, but Betty blocked her path. “I’d like a coffee,” Betty said slowly, deliberately. “Brewed by you.”
“Is that not allowed?”
Her sweet, innocent act made yesterday’s provocation seem a distant dream.
Christine agreed.
She prepared the coffee and served it. Betty took one sip, then gagged and spat it out. “What is this? It’s awful. Make it again.”
Christine stayed silent.
A second cup was served. Betty found fault once more.
“Disgusting. Again.”
This time, Christine didn’t move. She just watched, quiet, as if observing a poor joke.
“Are you enjoying this?”
Betty hated that superior look. “Immensely,” she sneered. “You know, Scott stayed at my place all night yesterday. He just dropped me off here—gone to queue for my favorite matcha cake.”
“I thought cake deserves good coffee.” Betty waved her phone, sending him her location. “He still loves me. Just like he used to.”
The words tugged at a memory—a time when he had loved *her* with that same devotion.
She used to love handmade candied hawthorns, but cavities always made her hold back. Scott, somehow finding out, secretly learned to make them himself. Though sugar-free, they were so sour they made your teeth ache.
Christine’s hand rose unconsciously to her jaw, as if feeling that phantom pain.
“Fine.” Maybe it was the remembered sourness that choked her, leaving only single syllables. She turned back toward the counter.
Furious, Betty snatched up the scalding coffee and hurled it at Christine’s retreating back. Dark stains bloomed across her shirt like ugly flowers, the wet fabric clinging and burning.
For a moment, the pain was so intense she couldn’t stand. She slowly sank to her knees.
Betty seized the moment, collapsing with a cry. “My leg! It hurts so much!”
Scott walked in just then and saw the scene. He rushed to Betty’s side. “What happened?”
“I think my leg’s broken, it hurts so much,” she sobbed against his chest, clinging tightly.
Scott’s gaze shifted to Christine, raw hatred in his eyes. “Christine,” he snarled, “how much more do you have to hurt her? Do you have to drive her to her grave?”
She didn’t understand his words, but she understood his hate.
The pain on her back was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. She was the one wronged, yet he couldn’t see it.
The barista rushed over. “Are you okay, Christine?”
She bit back her tears and shook her head. Something in that gesture seemed to trigger Scott. He scooped Betty into his arms and shot Christine a look of pure scorn. “Stop the act. You’re just like your father—both of you experts at playing the victim. He pretended to be the saint to deceive everyone, and you… you’ve mastered the pitiful, helpless routine.”
He could insult her all he wanted. But he should never have spoken about her father that way.
“Scott,” she said, her eyes red, voice low and trembling. “That was my father.”
