arles flushed at Yaya’s compliment.
Jack glanced between Yaya and himself: “We overslept.”
“This kid was too excited to sleep last night.”
He darted inside to wash up while hastily explaining.
Margaret rushed in to help. She had never cared for a child with such meticulousness before. By the time they dashed off in the car, the event was about to begin. This makeshift family of three naturally became the center of attention.
That day, Margaret stayed glued to Yaya’s side, shielding her protectively.
Jack followed close behind, his gaze gentle as he suggested she could ease up a bit. But Margaret wouldn’t hear of it.
Finally, the event concluded successfully. They lived up to expectations, clinching first place and proudly claiming their prize.
Moonlight filtered through the trees, casting patterns on the ground as the three stood at the doorway saying their goodbyes.
“Thank you for today.”
Jack’s voice rang out, clear and pleasant.
Margaret shook her head, about to say she might be happier than Yaya today, when the little girl sleeping in her arms stirred and demanded her dad.
Jack reached out to take her, their hands brushing unexpectedly. A perfectly ordinary moment, yet his ear tips flushed crimson for no apparent reason.
The red spread like a virus, rapidly coloring Margaret’s cheeks.
The air around them grew warmer.
Charles, far away in Philadelphia, remained oblivious to it all.
That marriage certificate was their sole connection.
He assumed Margaret merely sought his attention through divorce theatrics.
Only after a month did Charles realize he hadn’t seen her in ages. Was she serious?
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Impossible. He knew how much Margaret had endured to be with him. She wouldn’t give up so easily.
He instinctively reached for his phone to call Margaret, only to discover she’d blocked him. Calls failed; messages vanished. The woman had disappeared like smoke.
Flipping through his contacts, he dialed everyone who’d ever known her. Not a soul could pinpoint her whereabouts.
Charles slammed the phone down and stormed into his study. The room stood completely empty, save for those painfully conspicuous bright red divorce papers glaring from his desk.
“Seriously?”
He scoffed, picking up the divorce papers. The embossed seal was proof Margaret wasn’t bluffing.
Did she think producing these documents would make him cave? Not a chance.
The next morning, Charles and Barbara followed their usual routine taking Victor to kindergarten. Walking on either side of him near the school entrance, Victor chattered away between them.
The picture–perfect scene felt unsettling to Charles.
Before he could dwell on it, the teacher took Victor’s hand, glancing at Charles. “Mr. Rivera, the principal needs to discuss next week’s summer camp arrangements with you.”
“Alright.” Charles agreed automatically, only realizing the implications upon entering the principal’s office. “You’re saying… Margaret previously sponsored all our summer camps?”
Victor scowled beside him. “Why’d she have to stick her nose in?”
The principal nodded: “Charles is in poor health. By the rules, he shouldn’t join such risky activities, but Margaret wants him to have a proper childhood… Every outing includes Philadelphia’s top medical team and emergency equip-
ment.”
“Fine, I won’t go then,” Charles insisted. “Who’d want those exhausting activities anyway? Aunt Barbara never forces me into things I hate.”
The principal stood frozen in awkward silence.
Barbara stepped forward at just the right moment, tugging Charles’s sleeve to mediate: “Principal, our Charles and Margaret are divorced now. We won’t be involved in these matters going forward.”
After dropping Charles at his classroom, the two headed home, Charles staying utterly silent throughout the drive.
He knew he was divorced from Margaret, but hearing it from others was unsettling.
Barbara turned and went to the kitchen, bringing out a bowl of soup to push before Charles: “Try it.”
Charles lifted it for a small sip–too bland, not the flavor he was used to.
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Truthfully, he never cared for these soups and was picky. But during a period of fatigue, a massage therapist pre- scribed a remedy. Margaret learned it, handling everything from selecting ingredients to simmering the broth.
He’d drunk it for six years.
Perhaps from too many late nights, that fatigue was creeping back these days. Yet the housekeeper could never quite replicate that taste.
“Still don’t like it?”
Barbara frowned slightly.
“It’s fine.” He put down the bowl. Charles didn’t speak, straightened his collar, and then ordered: “I’m going back to the Rivera family for a while.”
