Chapter 1

“Mia madre è una maiale grassa e imponente.”

Outside the kindergarten, my six-year-old son introduced me to the other kids in Italian.

The kids didn't understand, they just laughed along.

I understood, because every single sound in that sentence was something I had taught him.

I stood outside the school gate, seven months pregnant, my heart aching.

Orwell saw me, and the smile instantly vanished from his face.

I reached out for his backpack. But he pulled it behind him, wrinkling his nose.

“Mom, you smell.”

I froze. It's easy to sweat in the late stages of pregnancy, but I'd definitely changed before leaving.

A child nearby asked him, “Is that your mom?”

Orwell didn't answer right away. After a few seconds, he looked down and mumbled, “Yeah.”

He said it reluctantly, as if admitting I was his mom was something shameful.

I looked at him. “Who taught you that Italian phrase just now?”

His eyes flickered. “What Italian phrase?”

“You said I was like a fat pig.”

He lowered his head, kicking at the leaves on the ground, saying nothing.

I asked again, “Did Dad say it?”

Orwell pursed his lips. “Everyone says that. Eleanor said you’re getting less like your old self since you got pregnant with my sister.”

My belly gave a gentle kick.

I leaned against the railing beside me. Suddenly, the burning sensation in my palm didn’t hurt as much.

What truly hurt was that I had personally taught him to speak.

But after he learned, the first thing he learned was how to despise me.