Chapter 3
Back home, Eleanor was watching TV in the living room.
Orwell immediately ran to complain. “Eleanor, Mom wouldn’t let me have ice cream, and she told me to clean the car!”
Eleanor immediately put down the remote. “Chloe, why are you so impatient just because you’re pregnant? What’s wrong with Orwell wanting some ice cream?”
I changed my shoes and placed my prenatal check-up book on the entryway cabinet.
“He insulted me at the kindergarten gate today.”
Eleanor frowned. “What could he have said to insult you?”
I looked at her. “He said I was like a fat pig.”
Her face stiffened, just for a moment.
But I saw it.
She knew. At least, she’d heard similar words before.
Sure enough, the next second, she started to cover it up.
“He’s just a kid, what does he know? He must have learned it from a cartoon.”
“He said Fisher said it.”
Eleanor’s face instantly darkened.
“Don’t blame everything on Fisher. He’s so busy at work every day, when would he have time to teach the kid stuff like that?”
I asked, “Then what about Mia?”
The living room fell silent, the TV still playing laughter.
None of us spoke.
Mia, Fisher’s administrative assistant.
Twenty-six years old, always wearing white dresses, speaking softly.
Last month, she came to the house to deliver documents and brought Orwell a LEGO set.
Orwell was thrilled all evening.
At the time, I even laughed and said, “You’re so good with kids.”
Now that I think about it, she really was good at charming people.
A LEGO set and a few sweet words were enough to make a six-year-old remember her kindness.
Meanwhile, all the sleepless nights I'd pulled, the meals I'd cooked, the hospital visits I'd made, the classes I'd attended – all of it just became “what a mother is supposed to do.”
Orwell ran to grab the remote. “Eleanor, I want to watch cartoons.”
I said, “No cartoons today.”
Eleanor shielded him. “He’s been at school all day, what’s wrong with him relaxing a bit?”
I took the remote. “He humiliated me today, so no cartoons.”
Eleanor got agitated. “Why are you arguing with a six-year-old?”
I looked at her. “When you were teaching him to look down on me, why didn’t you remember he was only six?”
Her face turned ugly. “Don’t spread lies.”
I ignored her. I went into the kitchen and cooked myself a bowl of pasta. Only one bowl.
Eleanor stood at the doorway. “What’s Orwell eating tonight?”
“You make him something.”
She looked like she didn’t understand.
“Didn’t you already cook?”
“I only cooked for myself.”
“Chloe, what do you mean?”
I brought the pasta out and sat at the dining table.
“It means that from today on, whoever feels sorry for him can cook for him.”
Orwell sat on the sofa, staring at me, bewildered.
I never used to let him go hungry.
Even if he’d just thrown a tantrum at me, broken a knife or fork, I’d turn around and go into the kitchen to make him pudding, pan-fry a steak, or cut fruit.
Today, I didn't.
Eleanor angrily went into the kitchen and started clanking pots. Ten minutes later, she brought out a plate of burnt steak.
Orwell took a bite, frowning. “It tastes awful.”
Eleanor’s face hardened. “Eat it anyway.”
He looked at me. “Mom, I want your cooking.”
I lowered my head and ate my pasta. “Not today.”
His eyes reddened. “You don’t love me anymore.”
That sentence used to work wonders on me.
As soon as he asked if Mom didn’t love him anymore, I’d panic.
I’d hug him, kiss him, and explain a hundred times that I loved him.
Today, I just put down my knife and fork. “Love doesn’t mean you get to hurt me whenever you want.”
He didn't understand. But he knew, crying wouldn’t work this time.