To welcome Mom back home, I made a big feast.

I knew what she liked to eat.

I wanted her to enjoy it, to see a satisfied smile on her face, and maybe even get her to smile at me.

In my memories, Mom always looked cold toward me.

She walked into the kitchen with Blake, her face soft and smiling – only for him.

I told myself that after she tasted my cooking, she would smile at me too.

After Mom left, I lived with my grandma until she passed away a few years ago, leaving me to live alone.

When I was six, other kids said I was a jinx for not having parents.

But I knew I had a mom.

After she left, I would cry and throw tantrums, begging to find her.

Grandma told me Mom ran off with someone.

I wouldn’t listen; I kept demanding to see Mom.

Grandma tried to explain, giving me all sorts of reasons, but none worked on my stubbornness.

Finally, she changed her story.

She said Dad had died, and with no income, Mom left to save money for me, so I wouldn’t go hungry.

I believed her.

How could a mother not love her child?

All the other moms around loved their kids.

So I was convinced my mom loved me too.

She must have had her reasons for leaving, and I was sure she would come back.

From that day on, I finally stopped crying and throwing fits.

I stared at the big bag of potatoes in the corner, tears streaming down my face like a string of broken pearls.

I decided I’d eat half a portion less each day, so when Mom came back, she wouldn’t have to worry about running out of food for me.

And I did just that.

Now, Mom was finally back.

I served Mom a generous helping of mashed potatoes. “I cooked your favorite. Please, have as much as you’d like.”

She frowned, clearly displeased. “You can’t even call me ‘Mom’ anymore? Gavin, where are your manners?”

“M-Mom.” The word felt strange on my tongue. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called her that, and now it felt unfamiliar.

I had stopped using that name because she seemed to dislike it.

When I was eight, I had run into Blake, who looked just like her.

Just one glance, and I recognized him immediately.

That’s how I found out about their new home.

I saw Blake being pinned down, swearing at someone.

I jumped in to help him.

I was filled with a fierce energy, and Mom who had come to find Blake saw me throwing punches.

She looked just as I remembered – nothing had changed.

The moment I saw her, my heart sparkled with hope.

But her eyes were filled with worry only for Blake as she scanned him repeatedly.

Only when she saw he was unharmed did she shift her gaze to me.

She looked at me like I was a stranger.

No, even worse than that.

There was no warmth in her eyes – only pure disgust.

I thought she might have been startled by my fierce demeanor or that she hadn’t recognized me after so long.

“Mom, it’s me, Gavin. I was helping my brother…” I was desperate to explain, not wanting her to misunderstand.

“Shut up! And don’t call me ‘Mom’! Blake is so well-behaved; he’s never been in a fight. Why would he suddenly start after you show up? And you helped him?”

I glanced at Blake, hoping he’d come to my defense.

He rubbed against Mom’s arm and obediently said, “Mom, I wasn’t fighting. It was my brother who fought. I told him not to.”

His innocent demeanor was a stark contrast to the foul-mouthed boy I’d just seen.

In that moment, I felt utterly defeated, unable to defend myself.

Mom gently patted Blake’s head, speaking softly, “Blake, I know you’ve always been good. I believe you.”

Then she turned to me, her expression shifting from warmth to disgust.

“Gavin, don’t ever call me ‘Mom’ again! I’m afraid of you being a bad influence and embarrassing me.”

My thoughts drifted back to the present, and I heard Mom’s impatient voice again.

“And why did you serve me so much potato? Are you trying to stuff me to death? Can’t you see your brother wants soup? Hurry up and serve him some!”

I obeyed, filling a bowl with soup for Blake. I wanted to serve Mom some vegetables, but Blake beat me to it.

Mom smiled at him, saying, “Blake is so considerate. You should eat too.”

I opened my mouth, but in the end, I said nothing.

That day, Mom brought up the idea of me donating bone marrow to Blake again.

I lowered my gaze, feeling dejected.

Mom had been living with me for nearly a month, but my condition was worsening, and she didn’t seem to notice.

I had tried to be honest with her, but she didn’t believe me.

I vaguely remembered the first weekend after she returned.

She and Blake were getting ready to go out, and she told me to stay home while they handled some errands.

I nodded, not really wanting to go out anyway, as I felt increasingly weak.

It wasn’t until I saw Blake’s post on social media that I realized “errands” meant a spring outing, a picnic.

In the video, they were all enjoying drinks and an array of delicious foods, having a great time.

They spent the whole day out, returning home late at night.

When they got back, Blake sprawled on the couch, complaining, “Mom, I’m so tired. I really feel weaker every day.”

Mom sat beside him, soothingly saying, “Blake, feeling tired is normal. We’ll follow the doctor’s advice and after your bone marrow transplant, you’ll be fine.”

Blake turned to glance at me.

“But can my brother agree to it?”

Mom looked at me too.

“Mom, I’m sick too,” I said. I have leukemia as well.

But Mom had never had much patience with me, and she cut me off before I could finish.

“Sick? Are you talking about that little injury on your hand?”

I glanced at the back of my hand, which was still red, like a birthmark.

It was a burn from a few days ago when I was cooking.

I had been applying ointment, and it had improved a lot.

I wasn’t sure if she had just noticed it now or had seen it back then and simply didn’t care to ask.

“No, that’s not it. I have leukemia too.”

I even pulled out the hospital’s diagnosis report to convince her.

Her eyes widened with surprise, but quickly returned to calm.

She barely glanced at the report before tossing it aside.

With a scoff, she said coldly, “If you didn’t want to help, you could’ve just said so. Why bother making up such an excuse?

“I can’t speak for other things, but you’ve certainly inherited your father’s lying, selfish ways. You’ve got that down to a tee.

“Especially faking being sick – something you were always good at as a kid.

“And now you’ve really outdone yourself, going as far as to fake a hospital report.”

Yes, I had pretended to be sick once before to keep her from leaving when she planned to take Blake away.

She saw right through me then, roughly shoving my hands away as I clung to her legs, sending me tumbling to the ground.

Mom wouldn’t believe me, and I felt powerless to explain.