Chapter 130
My Milly, my baby.
She's only five years old, yet she's already learned to be considerate, to be supportive, to embrace and understand me—her far-from-perfect mom—with her pure heart.
I held her tight, my voice choking up a bit, "Thank you, Milly. Mommy loves you so, so much, always and forever."
The next afternoon, I arrived at the kindergarten a bit early.
I went to find the principal first to briefly explain the situation.
Jack's parents had something come up at the last minute, so they asked me to help bring Jack along to complete the kindergarten craft project.
The principal was a reasonable middle-aged woman. She probably knew something about the complicated relationship between me and the Smith family, but she didn't ask questions. She just nodded understandingly, "Alright, Ms. Brown, thank you for doing this. I'll leave both children with you. You can do the craft in the parent-child activity room over there. When you're done, just hand it to the class teacher."
I thanked the principal, then went to Jack's classroom to pick him up.
When Jack saw it was me coming to take him to do crafts, and not Sarah or anyone else he was hoping for, his little face immediately showed undisguised disappointment, which then turned into a mix of smugness and arrogance.
He tilted his chin up, looked at me sideways, his tone carrying childish meanness and certainty, "See, I told you! You wouldn't really just leave me alone. Deep down you still care about me, you still love me."
"All that stuff you said about leaving our house, about getting divorced—it's all bullshit lies. My dad is so rich, there's no way you'd want to leave."
"You're coming to butter me up now, aren't you? So I'll say nice things to Dad and let you come back?"
He went on and on by himself, then started making demands, "I'm telling you, today I want to make a one-of-a-kind, super awesome robot!"
"Better than all my classmates', and you have to help me make it the best. Also, after we finish the craft, you have to buy me something yummy. I want ice cream."
"And this weekend, you have to take me to that biggest ball pit castle to play. You have to promise!"
I listened to his long string of demands with no expression on my face, and didn't respond.
I just calmly took Milly's hand as she waited quietly beside me, and said to Jack, "Follow us. We're going to the activity room."
When Jack saw I had no reaction to his demands and just coldly told him to follow, the smug look on his face froze, then turned into anger at being ignored.
He huffed indignantly, but still followed behind us.
When we got to the parent-child activity room, some basic craft materials were already prepared.
I found an empty table and had Milly sit down, then sat beside her.
Jack reluctantly sat across from us.
I had indeed promised George I would take Jack along to do crafts and make sure a project that met the requirements got turned in.
But that didn't mean I had to obey Jack's every word, satisfy all his unreasonable demands, or treat him like royalty.
I ignored Jack's renewed demands to make the most awesome robot, just pushed the materials basket in front of him, my tone flat, "Your teacher said free choice—use these materials to make something you like and are good at. Time is limited, so get to work."
Then I stopped paying attention to him and turned to focus on Milly.
"What does Milly want to make?" I asked gently.
"I want to make a little house for Mommy to live in," Milly said enthusiastically, picking up colored paper and scissors.
"That sounds great. Mommy will make it with you."
We mother and daughter quickly got absorbed in our own craft world.
I helped Milly cut and fold while she applied glue and stuck on decorations. We chatted quietly now and then—the atmosphere was warm and harmonious.
At first, Jack across from us stubbornly messed with the materials, deliberately making loud noises to get our attention.
But seeing that Milly and I were completely unaffected, he probably found it boring. Plus he was afraid of not finishing and looking bad, so he finally started working on his own project with his head down.
He kept saying he needed this, then that, but I just handed him the materials he asked for without interfering much, and definitely didn't do the work for him.
His work came out crooked and messy. He got so frustrated he stomped his feet, but I only reminded him to watch the time.
In contrast, although Milly was younger, she was thoughtful and listened well. The little house we made together was simple but full of childlike charm and love.
Time passed quickly.
In the end, through all his complaining and fumbling around, Jack barely managed to make a cardboard creation that you could sort of tell was supposed to be a robot.
Meanwhile, Milly's little house, though simple, had harmonious colors, solid structure, and she'd carefully drawn windows and little flowers on it.
When we turned in our projects to the class teacher, she clearly praised Milly's little house highly, while for Jack's crooked robot, she just smiled politely and said it was very creative.
During the simple award ceremony after the activity, Milly's little house won a Best Creativity Award medal, and she was so happy her eyes curved into crescents.
Jack, because his work was rough and clearly didn't meet the detailed requirements of the robot theme, didn't get any award.
Looking at the little medal hanging around Milly's neck, then at his own empty hands, Jack's little face immediately fell. His mouth trembled and his eyes reddened.
But he held back from crying, just glared at Milly and me with a look of grievance and resentment.
I calmly looked away and took Milly's hand, "Let's go, Milly. We're going home."
I had done what I promised.
As for the results, how Jack felt—that wasn't part of my promise and had nothing to do with me anymore.
I had planned to drop Jack off at the Smith Villa and then go back with Milly, so I called George.
After a long wait tone, it was Steven's formulaic voice that answered, "Mrs. Smith."
I already had a bad feeling, "Where's George? I'm ready to bring Jack back."
"Mr. Smith is still in a meeting and can't take calls right now," Steven's tone was completely flat, "Mr. Smith has already instructed that you take care of Jack tonight. After the meeting ends, Mr. Smith will contact you."
"Wait!" I immediately wanted to refuse.
I had only agreed to do the craft, not to watch the child all evening.
Especially not Jack, this spoiled child.
But before I could finish, the phone line went to a crisp busy tone.
Steven had hung up.
I held my phone, feeling powerless and irritated.
George was always like this.
Issuing orders unilaterally, never considering my wishes or situation, not even giving me a chance to communicate—just having Steven notify me directly.
I looked at Jack beside me, his face full of impatience as he kicked at a pebble, and tried to suppress my anger.
I couldn't take him back to my place. I didn't want Jack stepping into the small, cozy safe haven that Milly and I had now.
But the Smith Villa—could I even get in?
My fingerprint had long been deleted, the password changed too.
Everything about the Smith Villa, from the day Sarah waltzed in, had completely excluded me, the lady of the house.
What would I go in there for? To be like an intruder, accepting those servants' surprised or contemptuous looks?
I tried saying to Jack, "Jack, tonight you'll stay at my place for one night, and I'll take you back tomorrow morning, okay?"
I figured at worst I'd stay up with him in the living room all night—better than going to the Smith Villa.
Who knew Jack would immediately shake his head when he heard this, his face full of disgust and resistance, "No way! I'm not going to your house! Your place is so small, so shabby, it has nothing! I want to go to my own house!"
Seeing I wasn't moving, he started throwing a tantrum, forcefully pulling my arm toward the main gate, muttering, "Why aren't you going back to your own house? Why are you always taking Milly out? Hurry up and open the door! I'm hungry! I want to go home!"
My own house?
I let out a cold laugh, my voice not loud but carrying bone-chilling coldness, "Is that still my home?"
"Isn't that your mom's and your dad's home?"