Chapter 3

3.

Seeing my daughter's face turn red from crying, I lunged forward to block him.

I pulled her into my arms, my heart breaking.

I glared at Mason. "It's just a bottle of soap! It's a holiday―how can you be so cruel to your own child?"

Lydia whimpered, "I haven't found a job since I got back. I used my savings for that."

"I guess a housewife like you wouldn't understand how hard it is to earn money. You don't have any financial worries."

"I just wanted to say it was special. I didn't mean to cause a fight. I'm so sorry."

She made a move as if she were going to bow and apologize to me.

Mason immediately caught her. He looked at me with cold, sharp eyes. "Cora, you've gone too far!"

"You're the one who failed to raise her right. Why should Lydia apologize?"

I looked at my husband, the man who kept choosing another woman over his family.

This was the third time he had started a fight with me over Lydia in the last twenty-four hours.

I looked at my in-laws, who were watching the drama from the kitchen as if it were a reality show.

It was clear. No one wanted us here.

I didn't want my daughter to spend her holiday in this toxic environment.

I picked her up and turned to leave.

But as I stepped past Lydia, my foot caught on something. I tripped.

I saw the glass shards on the floor and panicked about my daughter getting hurt.

I used all my strength to hold her up with one arm, while my other hand slammed down onto the shattered glass to break our fall.

As I struggled to stand, I felt the shards embedding themselves deep into my palm. Bright red blood began to pour from the wounds.

Mason saw the blood and tried to reach for me, but I shoved him away with everything I had.

His lips trembled as if he wanted to say something, but he went silent the moment he saw the absolute coldness in my eyes.

I let out a sharp scoff and walked out the door with my terrified child.

It was New Year's Day, and almost everything was closed.

I walked for blocks until I found a fast-food joint that was still open.

The cashier looked shocked when I pulled out a handful of crumpled, muddy bills.

Still, he took the money and brought over some fries and nuggets.

My three-year-old daughter was resilient. The moment she saw the fries, her eyes crinkled with joy.

She cutely held up a fry dipped in ketchup. "Eat, Mommy!"

I stroked her hair, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

It was a message from Jackie, a girl I grew up with back in our hometown.

After the usual holiday greetings, she asked how I was doing.

I gave her a brief update, and she immediately called me.

"Cora, have you thought about moving down South to open a shop with me?"

"You handle the kitchen, I'll handle the front. We can actually make something of ourselves!"

I thought about the helplessness I felt at the hospital. I looked at my daughter's old, worn-out clothes. My heart raced.

But then I thought about who would watch her while I worked. I hesitated.

"Jackie, can I have some time to think about it?"

"Of course. Just let me know when you decide!"

The call ended, and snow started to fall outside the window.

The cashier seemed to notice my situation. He didn't kick us out; instead, he brought over a warm blanket.

I spent New Year's Eve with my daughter and a kind stranger in a burger joint.

I didn't head home until the sun came up.