NovelNext Chapter 22
Chapter 22
In the cramped rental apartment, Sophia Sinclair and Luna Smith squeezed onto a yellowed, worn-out sofa. The springs had long since deformed, creaking loudly with every movement.
"Mom, when can we get a new sofa?" Luna frowned, her fingers unconsciously picking at the frayed edges of a hole in the fabric.
Sophia sighed. "When this month's paycheck comes in."
On the screen before them played scenes from the Smith family mansion. Ethan Smith had one arm around Grace Sullivan and the other cradling Emily Smith, all three laughing with genuine joy.
Luna's nails dug deep into her palms.
"So... this is what he really looks like when he's happy."
Sophia stared at the screen, her expression complicated. She remembered how Ethan had always been so formal around her, his smiles measured and precise, as if calculated to the perfect angle.
On the screen, Ethan was gently combing Emily's hair, his movements tender, as if handling something precious. Luna suddenly recalled her own childhood—how he had once done the same for her, though she had always complained he wasn’t good at it.
"He never cried in front of us," Luna murmured.
Sophia gave a bitter smile. "No. Even his anger was restrained."
The screen switched to another scene: Ethan, childlike, resting his head on Grace’s lap while she laughed and ruffled his hair. The sight stung both mother and daughter.
"We... really messed up," Luna said, her voice cracking.
Sophia thought back to that day at the hospital—Ethan’s resolute retreat. She had assumed he was just throwing a tantrum, never imagining he would truly leave them behind.
"Luna, do you remember the last time you called him 'Dad'?"
Luna stiffened. Of course she remembered. The day Alexander Huxley had returned, she had declared in front of everyone, "I only have one father."
As the screen dimmed, Luna finally broke down, collapsing into her mother’s arms. "Mom... I really don’t have a dad anymore."
Meanwhile, at the Smith mansion.
Ethan wiped away his tears and curiously opened the gift box. The number on the bank statement made him raise an eyebrow.
"Ten thousand, three hundred sixty-two dollars and fifty cents?" He chuckled dryly. "How... precise."
The handwriting on the note was shaky, clearly written under emotional distress. Ethan tucked the statement back into the box and shoved it into the deepest corner of a drawer.
"Whatever. Let it be a keepsake."