Chapter 2

"Dorman, don't be so petty."

My mother-in-law Ruth's call came earlier than I'd expected.

"Peter told me the child is his comrade's orphan. How can a woman like you have so little magnanimity?"

"Mom, that child calls Mary 'Mommy.'"

"What do kids know? He'll call whoever takes care of him."

Her words came fast, like she'd rehearsed them all night.

"Peter came clean with me too. She's just helping out, staying for a few days then leaving. If you insist on thinking that way, is it because you've had no children for five years and feel resentful?"

When those words pierced through, my nails dug into my palms.

"Mom, do you know why I haven't had children in five years?"

"If your health isn't good, go get treatment. I've told you so many times—"

"In our second year of marriage, Peter had me take medication for six months, saying it would help me conceive. I took the prescription to a hospital to check—long-term use of that drug causes infertility."

Silence for two seconds on the other end.

"You're talking nonsense. Hasn't Peter been good enough to you? Do you have to tear this family apart?"

She hung up.

At noon, Mary came down from the room next door and cooked a whole table of food.

Andrew sat at the dining table, holding his bowl, getting food all over his face.

She sat beside him, wiping him clean bit by bit with wet wipes.

Seeing me come downstairs, she stood up.

"Dorman, I served you a bowl of soup too."

The soup bowl sat at the far end of the table.

She was sitting in my usual seat.

I didn't touch that bowl of soup.

When I went out that afternoon to buy medicine, I swiped Peter's supplementary card.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, this card has been deactivated."

I switched to my own savings card and entered the password. Insufficient funds.

I opened my mobile banking app.

Three days ago, my personal account had been hit with a transfer. One hundred and forty thousand dollars, all moved to Peter Corporation's custodial account.

Operator: Peter.

Using a clause from that investment authorization I'd signed years ago—"Party B's funds shall be uniformly allocated and used by Party A."

That evening, Ruth arrived.

A seventy-year-old woman in low-heeled pumps, carrying a bag of fruit through the door.

The moment she saw Mary, she smiled.

"Such a lovely girl. Come here, let me see Andrew."

She held the child, touching his face, kissing his forehead, eyes narrowing to slits.

"This nose—exactly like Peter when he was little."

She knew. She knew everything.

Ruth pulled a box from her bag and opened it.

An emerald jade bracelet, beautiful.

I recognized it—it was a gift from my family at my wedding, valued at eighty thousand dollars.

In our second year of marriage, Ruth said she wanted to borrow it for a friend's birthday party. It never came back.

She slipped the bracelet onto Mary's wrist.

"Here, this is for you. Taking care of the child must be hard work."

Mary demurred twice, just the right amount, then accepted on the third try.

"Thank you."

She said it while smiling at me.

Ruth sat on the sofa, picked up the tea Mary had made, and glanced at me.

"Dorman, you're thirty now. They say it gets harder for women to have children after thirty. Look how well-behaved Andrew is. Raise him for now, we can discuss the rest later."

"Mom, that bracelet is mine."

"What's yours and mine? Once you enter the door of Peter's house, everything belongs to Peter's house."

She set down her teacup.

"Dorman, if you really can't accept this, then I'll speak plainly—Peter told me you want a divorce."

She looked at me, her gaze shifting from kindness to something else.

"You can enter the door of Peter's house, but you can't leave."

"All that money from your dad counts as investment. Investment has risks—didn't you learn that in school?"

"You're one person, no children, no assets. What could you possibly do if you left?"

Mary stood in the kitchen doorway holding Andrew, saying nothing, but she was smiling.

Ruth stood up, patting at nonexistent wrinkles on her skirt.

"Think it through before you come talk to me again."

"A man like Peter—there's a line of women wanting to marry him. Count yourself lucky."