She looked up, her tone deliberately relaxed.
"The living expenses I've sent you these years — I see you've barely touched them."
Lynn Shea pressed her lips together; her voice dipped lower.
She'd checked the account on purpose, knowing her daughter had never used that money.
A pang hit her heart, but she didn't dare ask directly; she could only use this bland comment to probe her daughter's attitude.
Every time Lynn Shea called, her daughter always hurried through a few words before saying she had class or was busy, eager to hang up.
She could hear the exhaustion in her daughter's voice, and also her distance.
She'd wanted to say a few more words, ask if she was cold, if she was eating well.
But whenever the words reached her lips, they'd be blocked by, "Mom, I have class in a bit."
She understood — the child was still blaming her.
But what could she say?
Explanation?
Justification?
Or confess her helplessness?
She was afraid that the more she said, the more her daughter would think she was shirking responsibility.
But sending her abroad had been a last resort.
It wasn't that she didn't want to keep her here; it wasn't that she didn't care.
But reality left her no choice.
If the child stayed, the consequences would be more than she could bear.
If what happened that year got out, Mrs. Prescott would never acknowledge her, the Prescott Family wouldn't tolerate her.
Everyone in their circle would treat her as a joke.
She remembered that night: Mrs. Prescott sat cold and stern at the head of the table, couldn't even be bothered to pour her a cup of tea.
"If you dare let her stay, I'll pretend I never had a daughter-in-law like you."
She knew if she tried to defy them, her daughter would lose all protection from the Prescotts.
"I work part-time, and I'm interning at a law firm. I make enough to cover my expenses."
Vivian's voice was calm.
She didn't want Lynn Shea to think she was struggling, nor let her believe she needed any compensation.
Vivian had no desire to spend the Prescotts' money.
Even though that money belonged to her, she didn't want to touch it.
She always remembered how, as a child, Mrs. Prescott looked down at her.
When she was seven, she wanted a slice of cream cake — just a few glances too many, and Mrs. Prescott scolded her in front of everyone.
"A stray from outside — you think you deserve something this expensive?"
From that day on, she knew she'd always be an outsider in this family.
Lynn felt uneasy seeing her daughter so polite with her.
How she wished Vivian would complain, act spoiled, or even throw a tantrum at her just once.
But Vivian never did — she always kept just the right distance.
But it wasn't possible to bridge it all at once; Lynn could only silently counsel herself.
Take it slow — things will get better, sooner or later.
She knew she owed too much.
Her only hope was that she might still have time.
To wait for the day her daughter truly accepts her.
"You must be exhausted. I won't interrupt your rest any longer."
She glanced at her daughter's slightly worn-out face, and couldn't help wanting to tidy her collar.
But in the end, she pulled her hand back.
Some gestures haven't been made in so long that even reaching out feels impossible now.
"Go to bed early."
With that, she tiptoed quietly out of the room.
The crack in the door narrowed, and finally the last sliver of light disappeared.
The room returned to silence.
Only then did Vivian exhale slowly, her whole body relaxing.
She slid down against the door, sitting limply on the floor.
She thought she'd cry.
But her eyes burned dry and painful, not a single tear would come.
She still couldn't adjust to this version of Lynn Shea.
The mother who'd once been cold and distant was suddenly careful, attentive, considerate.
This sudden change unsettled her — verging on fearful.
She didn't know how to respond.
The Lynn Shea of before barely cared about her.
From the time she could remember, her mother's gaze always fell on Zeke Prescott and Lucia Prescott.
She remembered one time, Lucia deliberately knocked over her lunchbox — white rice scattered everywhere.
Before she could say a word, Lynn had scolded her first.
"Why didn't you keep your things safe? Your brother didn't do it on purpose."
But she clearly saw the smug look in Lucia's eyes.
The mother she remembered was always appeasing the two brothers in the living room.
And she could only stand in the corner, watching silently.
She stood in the shadows of the entryway, holding her cold lunchbox in her hands.
In those days she knew, in this house, she was never the star.
She carried her pajamas into the bathroom, turned on the shower.
She waited as the water slowly warmed up to the right temperature.
Hot water slipped over her shoulders, washing away her fatigue.
Steam swirled, clouding the mirror.
She closed her eyes, letting the water strike her face.
Then she crawled under the covers, curling up into a small ball.
The quilt was new, faintly scented with laundry detergent.
But the feel was so unfamiliar she couldn't settle down for a while.
The room was so quiet, she could hear her own breath.
She thought changing her environment would mean she couldn't sleep.
Scenes of their airport goodbye would replay endlessly in her mind.
But as soon as her head touched the pillow, her eyelids grew so heavy she couldn't lift them.
Halfway through the night, she had a dream.
The dream was so vivid it almost reenacted the moment from back then.
She dreamed Lynn had packed her bags, suitcase in hand, ready to leave.
She gripped Lynn's sleeve tightly.
She sobbed, begging her not to go, tears streaming without end.
It was snowing that day too — flakes settling on her thin coat.
She stood barefoot in the snow, ice shards stabbing at her feet.
But the pain didn't matter; all she cared about was chasing after her.
"Mom, don't go — don't leave me behind. I promise I'll be good, I'll never upset you again, I'll do anything you want…"
"Please don't abandon me… I'm begging you…"
No matter how much she cried, her hand was pried away by force.
She lost her balance, tumbling into the snowdrift.
Ice stung her face, the cold biting deep.
She struggled to lift her head, wanting to see her mother one last time.
But the woman never looked back.
"Vivian, Vivian."
Vivian forced open her eyes.
Her vision was blurry for a while before gradually clearing.
She saw, unexpectedly, Curtis Prescott standing by her bed.
"Curtis?"
She murmured softly.
Did she burn herself silly?
Why was Curtis here in her room?
"You've got a high fever, over 39 degrees — it's pretty serious."
Curtis spoke as he wrung out a cool, damp towel and placed it on her forehead.
The coolness cleared her foggy mind a little.
He'd passed her room that morning.
He heard someone inside murmuring, "Don't go."
At first he thought she was sleep-talking.
But after a while, the voice became more and more urgent.
He sensed something was wrong, gently pushed the door, discovered it wasn't locked, so he stepped in.
He found her face burning bright red.
Only then did Vivian realize — her body felt limp and powerless.
The chill seemed to seep in from her bones.
Even wrapped in thick covers, she couldn't stop shivering.
"Lynn had to go out for something urgent and couldn't make it back in time. I've called a doctor — they'll be here soon."
Curtis's tone was calm.
Vivian answered lightly, "Mm."
Her throat felt slashed and raw — dry and sore.
Even trying to say an extra word felt like too much; she could only close her eyes.