She Came Back After My Father Died

One AM, I was mopping the floor at the convenience store when I bumped into my own mother.

She was wearing a cashmere coat worth thousands, holding her two-year-old daughter's hand, picking out imported milk for her shopping basket.

Seeing my name tag, her smile froze.

"Give me your account number. I'll transfer you some money so you and your dad can get something decent to eat."

I pushed her hand away.

"No, thanks, Ms. Vance."

She frowned, looking at my twisted knuckles and the old scars on my palm.