Chapter 4

Three days later, Ethan came back with armfuls of expensive health supplements and a smile plastered across his face.

Yolanda, soft-hearted as ever, melted the moment she saw her son making peace. She got busy putting together a full spread on the dinner table.

At dinner, Ethan kept that wide smile going.

"Mom, I'm sorry about how I acted before. Don't hold it against me. Actually, I came today because I have some great news to share."

I sat stiff on the chair, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

Here it comes. This monster is about to make his move.

"Mom, you've had a hard life, and it breaks my heart. I found someone for you — a good match. His name is Winston. He runs a logistics company."

Yolanda's fork froze in midair. She stared at him, speechless.

"Ethan, what the hell are you talking about? Mom is sixty-five years old — who's she supposed to be getting married off to?"

Ethan set down his fork, a cold smile plastered on his face. "Mom, Winston is loaded. He's got a huge mansion. You'd be living the easy life. Besides, he already gave me the engagement ring — worth a full million dollars."

Yolanda's face went pale in an instant, her lips trembling violently.

"You… you took his valuable gift ? You're selling your own mother!"

"Mom! Don't make it sound so ugly!" Ethan slammed his hand on the table, dropping all pretense. "I'm doing this for you!"

"I won't go! I'd rather die than go!" Yolanda shot to her feet, tears streaming down her face.

Ethan let out a cold laugh and pulled a document from his bag, slapping it down on the table.

"You don't have a choice. I've already transferred the house into my name. If you don't marry Winston like a good woman, I'll sell it tomorrow and leave you out on the street."

"You—" Yolanda pointed at him, choked on her own breath, and collapsed straight backward.

I let out a sharp cry and lunged at Ethan, sinking my teeth hard into his wrist.

"Stupid cat! Get off me!" He flung me away without even glancing at his unconscious mother, then said coldly, "Winston's driver will be here tomorrow to pick you up. You'd better have your things packed."

With that, he walked out the door.

I frantically licked Yolanda's cheek, trying to bring her around.

It took a long time before she slowly opened her eyes.

The house was hollow and still. Dead silent.

She didn't cry. She just walked quietly to the bedside and pulled open the drawer where she kept the property deed.

Empty.

She took out an old photo album next — filled with pictures of Ethan from childhood to adulthood.

There was one of him riding on his father's shoulders. Another of him holding his college acceptance letter, grinning wide.

Yolanda's thin, bony fingers traced the face of that bright-smiling boy. Then she grabbed the photo and tore it.

Rip.

One. Two. Three.

She tore every single photo to pieces — shredding them like she was shredding every ounce of love and hope she'd poured into him over a lifetime.

"Cole," she said, her voice rough as sandpaper, "we don't have a home anymore."

She didn't wait for Winston's driver the next morning.

That same night, she dug out an old canvas bag and packed nothing but a few changes of clothes and my cat food.

The expensive supplements sitting on the table — she didn't even look at them.

Outside, the wind was fierce, carrying a fine, cold autumn rain.

Yolanda — sixty-five years old — walked out into the dark with a worn bag on her back and a black cat in her arms, never once looking back.

Her figure was bent and small, but every step she took was absolutely certain.