The day Kian Richmond was welcomed back by his birth family, my mother took a Greyhound overnight to see him. When Mrs. Richmond offered to thank us for raising him, Mom, terrified of the gesture, only took a single crystal glass from a side table. As we were leaving, I overheard Mrs. Richmond speaking to her housekeeper. “It makes my blood boil, thinking of my son going hungry, living in some leaky tenement. “People like that belong in the gutter, picking through trash.” With my eyes burning, I found Kian to return the glass, but he just shrugged, a picture of indifference. “Keep it,” he said, his voice cool. “Even if it’s just one of my mother’s old mouthwash cups, it’s worth more than you’ve ever seen.” I said nothing. When we got home, I packed a bag, and we disappeared. Years later, I heard a story. That the heir to the Richmond fortune spent five years searching for a poor family, holding a single crystal glass like a prayer. 1 It had been three months since Kian had returned to the Richmond family, and he hadn’t contacted us once. Mom, sick with worry, dragged me onto a bus that smelled of stale air and desperation. After a day and a night of rattling highways, we arrived at the Richmond estate. The sunset bled across the sky, setting the sprawling stone manor ablaze with golden light. When a uniformed maid opened the massive oak door, her eyes swept over us, cataloging our worn jeans and my mother’s faded coat in a single, dismissive glance. I clutched the frayed hem of my shirt, my knuckles white, and looked away. Eleanor Richmond, Kian’s mother, swept out to greet us. She was a woman sculpted from grace and money, with a laugh like the tinkling of a crystal wind chime. “We owe you such a debt of gratitude for taking care of Kian all these years,” she said, her smile perfectly polished. “I’ve been meaning to call, but things have just been a whirlwind.” My mother managed a tight smile, her own voice strained as she tried to match the pleasantry. But her eyes kept darting toward the grand staircase, searching. I knew that look. She missed Kian with an ache that thirteen years of love had carved into her soul. It wasn't something she could just let go of. “You’re busy, Mrs. Richmond, we understand. I just wanted to see him for a minute, just to know he’s…” Eleanor stopped and graced her with another radiant smile. “I had the staff notify him you were here. Dinner is almost ready. You must stay.” Seated at a long, white marble table, I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. Mom squeezed my hand under the table and, from her worn, floral-print purse, discreetly passed me a crushed dinner roll she’d saved from the bus station. A passing maid shot us a curious look before hurrying away. I quickly tucked the roll into my pocket, my cheeks burning with shame. It was a long time before Kian came downstairs. The moment he appeared, Mom was on her feet, rushing to him. “You’ve lost weight.” Her hand hovered near his cheek. “Why haven’t you called? Are you warm enough in just that?” Kian finally lifted his eyes from his phone, a flicker of annoyance in them. He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “There’s central air, Mom. And I’ve been busy. I’m training at the company.” The word “Mom” sounded foreign, clinical. She flinched, her hand dropping to her side. She nodded silently and returned to her seat. I stared at the boy sitting across from me, a stranger in a designer shirt. A ghost of memory flickered—my mom taking me to visit a distant relative in a town hollowed out by poverty. Kids my age roamed the streets, fighting over scraps of food like feral dogs. We found Kian in an alleyway, his clothes torn, his eyes vacant. He’d been cornered by a group of older boys. Mom chased them off, then gently cleaned his cuts, wrapped him in her own coat, and gave him the apple she’d been saving for me. As we were about to leave, he grabbed the sleeve of her coat. His small arm was a canvas of purple bruises. My mother’s eyes welled with tears. “As long as I’m alive,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “you’ll have a place to eat.” And just like that, the three of us—me, my mom, and Kian—became a family. 2 The maids filled the table with a dazzling array of dishes—roasted chicken, glistening fish, platters of things I couldn’t even name. Eleanor Richmond took her seat at the head of the table, her smile unwavering. “Please, eat. I hope you find something to your liking. I’m still trying to figure out Kian’s tastes. What did you usually cook for him?” Mom’s face softened with the memory. “Oh, he’s never been picky. Sautéed potatoes, peppers, green beans… he’ll eat anything you put in front of him.” Eleanor paused, her fork hovering over a slice of duck. “And what about his favorite splurges? A good steak, perhaps?” “He… he was never much of a meat-eater, really.” The lie was so thin it was transparent. Mom’s health was fragile, and just keeping two growing kids fed and in school was a constant struggle. Meat was a luxury we couldn’t afford. Eleanor’s smile didn’t falter, but it lost its warmth. “Is it that he doesn’t like it,” she murmured, her voice laced with honeyed poison, “or that he couldn’t have it?” The question hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The silence was deafening. I instinctively looked at Kian, but he was absorbed in his phone, his thumb scrolling endlessly. I tried to break the tension. “He loves scrambled eggs,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Mom makes the best.” Before the words had even settled, Kian let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “It was the closest we ever got to surf and turf.” A memory stabbed at me. Our neighbor’s hen would occasionally leave an egg on our porch, and Mom would always scramble it with fresh green beans from our tiny garden, dividing it into two small, precious portions. I remembered sitting across from Kian, fighting over the last bite in his bowl. I’d pouted, half-joking. “I’m never going to grow if you keep eating my eggs!” Back then, he had laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a tenderness that made my heart ache now to remember. “Okay, okay, you can have mine too,” he’d said, pushing his bowl toward me. “Our Chloe needs to eat up. You’ve got to grow taller than me.” I dropped my gaze to my lap, a cold wave of confusion washing over me. Three months. How could three months turn someone you loved into a complete stranger? I couldn’t tell if his words were a cruel joke or his new, bitter truth. Mom placed her fork down and pushed her chair back, pulling me up with her. “We won’t trouble you any longer, Mrs. Richmond. It’s time we were going.” As we stood, the icy mask on Eleanor’s face suddenly shattered into a performance of warm concern. “Oh, don’t be silly! Kian is just teasing. Please, don’t take him seriously. You’ve done so much for him. I insist you take something as a token of our appreciation. Anything in the house, please, choose whatever you like.” The villa was a museum of wealth. priceless art, jade statues, rare orchids in porcelain vases. Any single object could have sustained us for a lifetime. My mother frantically waved her hands, refusing, but the maids had already moved to flank us, blocking our path to the door. Trapped, Mom’s eyes darted around, panicked. Finally, she let me guide her into a quiet, dark side room. On a small vanity table, next to a silver-backed mirror, sat a simple crystal glass. She picked it up, her hands trembling. “This,” she whispered. “This will be fine.” From the hallway, I heard a maid stifle a laugh. “What is it?” Mom asked, her voice shaking. “Is it too valuable…?” A clap of thunder rattled the windows, and the sky opened up in a sudden downpour. Eleanor glided over, patting my mother’s hand with practiced sympathy. “It’s nothing, dear. The rain is much too heavy for you to travel. You’ll stay the night.” 3 The long bus ride had left me exhausted, and Mom was already asleep, her face etched with weariness in the dim lamplight. I’d had too much of the fancy bottled water they’d served and slipped out of the guest room to find a bathroom. As I crept down the silent, carpeted hallway, I heard voices from behind a partially closed door. It was Eleanor. “…and right here on my shoulders. God, it’s just disgraceful. Can you imagine the life my son has lived? He never even had a decent meal.” “You were finally able to bring the young master home, ma’am. That’s what matters. It was too generous of you to offer them a gift.” “Oh, I have a soft spot, I suppose. They did look after him for years. But it makes my blood boil, thinking of him going hungry, living in some leaky tenement. People like that,” her voice dripped with contempt, “belong in the gutter, picking through trash in a bathroom.” “Indeed, ma’am. That’s why I made sure to guide them in that direction earlier.” “You always know what to do, Maria. You’re a treasure.” I froze, my blood turning to ice. A different maid rounded the corner and saw me standing there. “Are you looking for something, miss?” It took a few seconds for my voice to work. I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass. “Yes, could you tell me where the restroom is?” She led me down a small hallway, to the very room where Mom had picked out the crystal glass. My heart sank into a black, bottomless pit. It was a guest bathroom. I remembered how the maids had surrounded us, leaving only one narrow path open. A path that led directly here. The humiliation washed over me, hot and suffocating. I stumbled back to our room, tears blurring my vision, and pulled the carefully wrapped glass from Mom’s purse. Through the window, the garden was illuminated by soft landscape lighting. And there, on the wet lawn, was Kian, jogging in place. A sleek Doberman stood at his side, watching him with rapt attention. I ran downstairs. As I reached the patio, Kian pointed to a distant patch of bushes and whistled sharply. “Go get it, Seven!” The dog shot off, disappearing into the dark foliage and returning a moment later with a small object in its mouth. Kian took it, patted the dog’s head, and then, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it again. This time, it landed in the middle of the ornate fountain with a soft splash. And this time, I saw what it was. A small, hand-stitched rag doll. Kian sighed in frustration and turned. His eyes met mine. My entire body started to shake, and the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free. The thing he had just thrown away like garbage was the 18th birthday present I had made for him.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "384551", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel