Clentine looked up from the stove, a smile on her face. "I thought you might be hungry, so I started early. If you’re hungry later, I can make you a midnight snack. Go on, take a rest in your room for now."
Clarissa glanced over at the counter and saw snow clam papaya soup simring and tempura waiting to be fried, still in the marinade.
She felt a wave of warmth and affection, her heart squeezing. "Thank you, Mom. Do you have a lunchbox I can take with ?"
......
Atticus was running ho, his clothes caked with mud, his hair a ss. When he arrived, he quickly headed inside, hoping no one would notice how dirty he was.
But when he got to his bedroom, a loud thud echoed from inside.
"Mom!" His heart skipped a beat, and he ran toward the sound.
Inside, Belle, his mother, was lying on the floor, her face pale, her hair dry and tangled.
"Mom!" Atticus hurried to her, lifting her up and carefully placing her on the bed, covering her with a blanket. "What are you doing out of bed? I told you, you need to rest. You’re still too weak."
Belle glanced at him, then noticed that his hands were empty. She said nothing but spoke in a strained, hoarse voice. "I… I need so water."
Atticus quickly turned, grabbed a glass of warm water, and helped her drink, his hands trembling slightly. "Mom, you must be hungry. I’ll go buy food for you later…"
"No…" she whispered, shaking her head weakly. "I’m not hungry."
The money and valuables in the house had been taken by the creditors. Belle had fallen ill and couldn’t work for the past few days. There was no food left, no money to buy anything, and Atticus—despite his best efforts—had nothing to offer. He didn’t even have a chance to eat. They were both starving.
After drinking the water, Belle’s face regained a little color, but she suddenly coughed violently.
Atticus rushed to her side, wiping her mouth with a tissue. But then he saw it—blood. The tissue was stained with the red, almost too much for his mind to comprehend.
Belle smiled faintly, but it was the kind of smile that spoke of utter exhaustion. "I think… I think I can’t make it, Atticus."
"No!" Atticus’s voice cracked. He grabbed her hand, gripping it as if it was the last lifeline he had. His eyes were red, his fists trembling, but he fought back the tears. "I’ll drop out of school tomorrow. I’ll make money for your treatnt. You’ll get better. You have to!"
Belle’s tears fell freely now, and she squeezed his hand, apologizing through her sobs. "Atticus, I’m sorry… It’s my fault. I married the wrong man. I’ve hurt you…"
Atticus wiped his own eyes, the guilt heavy in his chest. "No, Mom, stop. It’s not your fault."
But Belle, despite her pain, smiled again—a bitter, sad smile. She cleared her throat before speaking again, her voice barely a whisper. "There’s sothing… sothing I’ve kept from you, Atticus."
"What is it?"
She paused for a long ti, the silence stretching painfully between them. Then, with a heavy sigh, she spoke again, her words trembling.
"You’re… you’re not my real son."
Atticus stood frozen, his face draining of color as shock and disbelief overtook him. "What... what did you say?" he stamred, his voice barely a whisper.
Belle nodded slowly, her chest heaving with each breath, her eyes filled with unshed tears as she recounted the story.
"I was pregnant at the ti. Seven months along when he ca to asking for money. When I told him I had nothing, he beat . I ended up in the hospital, in premature labor. The baby didn’t survive. I gave birth to a stillborn boy..."
Belle’s voice broke, and her tears fell freely.
Atticus stared at her, his voice trembling as he spoke. "So... what about ? Why did you adopt ?"
Belle wiped her face, her hands shaking. "I was devastated. I wanted to return to my hotown, but my father kicked out. I wandered in despair, not knowing where to go. Then, one day, I heard a baby crying from the bushes..."
"That baby was you." She paused, her eyes locking onto Atticus's face, searching for sothing, maybe an understanding. "When I found you, I thought... I thought you were my son. I picked you up from the dirt... you looked just like him."
Belle’s gaze softened, but there was a sadness in her eyes. Atticus, so bright, so gifted—each ti she looked at him, she felt a twinge of panic. She was torn. Had she made the right decision all those years ago?
"I'm so sorry, Atticus. I should've told you sooner..."
Atticus's hand tightened around hers, his voice breaking with emotion. "I don’t care whose son I am... Please, Mom, don't leave . Please..."
His heart shattered at the thought. She was all he had left.
Belle forced a faint smile, trying to comfort him despite the pain she was feeling. "I won’t leave you, Atticus. I want to see you grow up, go to college, get married... I want to be there for all of it."
But her smile faltered. A mont of silence passed before she spoke again, her voice weak, almost a whisper. "Atticus... I’m starting to feel a little hungry. Could you... could you bring sothing to eat?"
"Of course, Mom. What do you want?" Atticus asked, his voice desperate to do sothing, anything to help her.
"Anything will do," Belle replied, her words trailing off.
As soon as Atticus turned to leave, he noticed a faint trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. His heart skipped a beat.
Atticus rushed out of the house in a panic. He collided with Clarissa, who had been walking toward him.
For a brief mont, Clarissa felt awkward, but she still pushed through. "Sorry, I stepped on your corn earlier. Have you eaten? I brought so food... Do you want it?"
Atticus barely glanced at the lunch box she held before snatching it from her hands. "I’ll return it later!" he said sharply, before running off toward ho.
Clarissa stood there, stunned for a mont. She hesitated but then decided to follow him.
Atticus burst into the bedroom, his voice frantic. "Mom, I brought the food, it’s still hot. You should eat it while it’s warm..."
But his words died in his throat when he saw Belle lying on the bed. Her body had slumped, her hand dangling over the edge. She was no longer breathing.
"Mom..." Atticus cried, his voice hollow. The lunch box slipped from his hands, spilling its contents onto the floor as he rushed to her side.
Clarissa stood frozen in the doorway, her body stiff with shock. She had never expected to witness such a scene. The boy she had seen earlier—so proud, so full of defiance—was now broken, sobbing uncontrollably as he clutched his mother’s lifeless body.
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