During my second week at the new job, I was assigned to an art gallery. There was an exhibition that day, and the gallery specifically requested our company's cleaning services. Accompanying me was a teenager, probably in his mid-teens. He had a deep tan and was quite skinny, giving him a slightly undernourished appearance, yet his eyes were strikingly bright and lively, like stars in a night sky.

I asked, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," he responded.

I chuckled, "No way. My daughter is twelve, and by the looks of you, you can't be more than thirteen."

The boy looked up in panic and pleaded, "Please don't report me. I worked really hard to get this job."

I gently shook my head, "I won't." After all, isn't everyone's early teenage years a bit of a struggle?

He sighed in relief and flashed a shy smile. For the next two hours, he stayed close, full of the boundless energy typical of teenagers.

"This metal bucket is too heavy; let me help you with it. And I'll hold the chair steady, so you don't fall."

I handed him a tissue, "Wipe your sweat. What's your name?"

"Ayden Hansen," he replied with a shy smile, then cautiously asked, "Ma'am, is it true you can't see out of your left eye?"

I was surprised, "How did you figure that out?"

For years, not even my husband or daughter had noticed.

Ayden gestured between the canvases, "You don't seem to judge distances quite right. Is it because of an illness that affects your left eye?"

I shook my head, "No, it was a gunshot wound I got while saving my ex-husband and daughter."

The boy's eyes widened, "They must be really grateful, right?"

I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn't cooperate, caught in some awkward position, "They've forgotten all about it."

I touched the prosthetic on my left side, feeling a pang of bitterness. They should have been the two closest to me, aware of the scars on my heart and my body—yet they knew nothing.

"Please don't cry, ma'am," Ayden stammered, awkwardly standing in front of me, his dark hands brushing away my tears.

Was I crying?

He puffed his cheeks, "It's their fault for being so inconsiderate! I'll help you carry things from now on, I'll help you judge distances—I'll be your eyes. And if anyone tries to give you a hard time, I'll help defend you!"

His innocent and sincere words warmed my heart, finally bringing a genuine smile to my face. "Alright, it’s a deal. From now on, Ayden will be my eyes. Let's shake on it—no backing out."

The boy's face lit up with a bashful grin as he hooked his little finger around mine, shaking it lightly, "Yes! Pinky promise, a hundred years, no changes!"

The gallery wasn't officially open yet, and only a select few with special invitations could enter today. Ayden and I carefully dusted the frames of the paintings, cloths in hand. Not far away, I overheard a soft female voice:

"Haisley, this is a piece by the renowned artist, Mr. Tobias. If you like it, Aunt Alison could buy it for you. How does that sound?"

Hearing the familiar name, I froze in place. I saw my daughter, Haisley Kelly. She was dressed in a Victorian-style gown, layers of delicate lace flowing like blooming flowers, with an eight-carat diamond hairpin sparkling in her hair. She clung to Alison Wright, the closeness between them unmistakable:

"Thank you, Aunt Alison, but we already have three of Mr. Tobias's works at home. This time, I'd like to see some realist paintings."

Nearby were three or four other children around Haisley's age, her friends, all wealthy young heirs and heiresses.

It seemed as if Alison knew I would be there. She looked up, our eyes meeting, and gave me a malicious smile. In the next moment, she raised her voice, gesturing toward the painting behind me:

"Haisley, what do you think of that painting?"

My heart leaped into my throat. Instinctively, I wanted to shield my face with my hand. I had never felt ashamed of doing manual work. But in front of Haisley and her friends, I wanted to preserve a shred of dignity for myself.

Don't look at me. Please, don't let my daughter see me like this.

My silent plea went unheard. It was like a scene in slow motion as Haisley's head turned inch by inch toward me.

Alison covered her mouth with an exaggerated expression and said:

"Haisley, doesn't that cleaner look just like your mom?"

Haisley's gaze passed over my cleaning uniform and the cloth in my hand without a moment's pause. She turned her head away decisively and said:

"That's not my mom. I've told you, my mom is dead."

It was like a thunderbolt in my ears. I felt dizzy, barely able to stand. The sharp edge of the table frame cut into my palm, immediately staining it crimson.

Alison laughed, pinching Haisley's soft cheek, and gleefully said:

"So, what kind of new mom does little Haisley want?"

Haisley snuggled into Alison, her small face pressed against her chest, affectionately saying:

"Of course, I want a mom just like Aunt Alison! So smart and beautiful, and she always plays with me."

It felt as if my heart was being squeezed repeatedly, or as if it had been thrown into a vat of boiling oil. The searing pain made me oblivious to the cut on my palm.

The daughter I bore and raised through the agony of childbirth, whom I held while enduring the pain of cracked nipples, feeding her with love and care. The daughter I sang lullabies to, cradling her in my arms through sleepless nights.

Now, she declared me dead and clung to another woman, calling her 'Mom' with tender affection.

Suddenly, like a small whirlwind, a dark figure rushed in front of Haisley. Ayden had knocked her down, exclaiming loudly:

"Your mom is right here, can't you see?!"