Upon hearing my words, everyone turned to look at me in surprise.

Luke was the first to react. His tone carried a hint of excitement, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

"You said it yourself," he said. "So don’t blame us later for not taking you along. This time, I won’t pamper you like I did last time."

He was referring to his birthday last year.

I had spent a small fortune to have a custom-made tailored just for the occasion—to give him face, to make him proud. But the moment he saw it, he sneered and said,

"With that bulky figure, you dare wear that? It’s hideous. Something like that only looks good on Camila. On you, it’s disgusting."

My self-esteem shattered in that instant. I lashed out, “If you think I’m such an embarrassment, I won’t attend tonight. You can celebrate your birthday alone.”

And he really did.

That night, Luke stood beside Camila, hand in hand, cutting the birthday cake in front of all the guests.

By the time the banquet ended in the early morning, I had cried so much that my eyes were red and swollen. When he returned home, he threw a leftover piece of cake at me with an impatient tone.

“I saved this specially for you.”

It was that pitiful piece of cake that softened my heart and made me reconcile with him, once again slipping back into the role of his servant.

Now, thinking back on that day, it felt like a thorn buried deep in my heart, constantly aching with every breath.

At this point, my daughter-in-law chimed in, pretending to be concerned.

“Don’t overthink it, Mom. If you want to go, just go.”

But I knew she had already hidden my suitcase.

The home I had lived in for decades suddenly felt unfamiliar—like I was being exiled from my own life. I turned around silently and walked back into the house, feeling drained.

Then Luke received a call from Camila.

He barged into my room and barked at me in that commanding tone he always used when speaking to the help.

“Camila’s place had a power outage. She’s scared to sleep alone, so she’s coming over. Go get the guest room ready for her. Oh, and she hasn’t eaten yet, so cook a few dishes she likes.”

I pressed my temples and sighed. “I already told you—I’m not feeling well today. Just go out and eat.”

“Don’t pretend!” he snapped. “You sit around all day doing nothing and still complain when I ask for a little help? You’ve got it easy.”

“Get up and cook!”

Without warning, he yanked me off the bed. I stumbled and hit the corner of the table hard. Blood instantly streamed down my forehead.

For a brief moment, Luke’s face changed. But before he could say anything, his phone buzzed.

His eyes lit up when he saw the message. Without another word, he turned around and rushed out of the room.

“Camila says she doesn’t want to trouble us and is inviting us out to eat instead. Hurry up and get ready—we don’t want to keep her waiting.”

A moment later, I heard cheerful voices from the living room and the slam of the front door.

I stared at the door, unable to move, my heart tangled with disappointment and quiet rage.

They had forgotten I had been packing their luggage since six in the morning, hadn’t eaten a single bite all day—and still, I didn’t even receive a proper invitation.

I quietly bandaged the wound on my head, then reached under the bed and dragged out a heavy iron box.

It held only four things.

Two marriage certificates, a dried rose and a silver ring that wasn’t even worth a hundred dollars—four items that had tied me to a lifetime of suffering.

When I was five, my father had an affair with Camila’s mother and brought his mistress into our home. My mother, heartbroken, died from the grief. Her eyes couldn’t even close in peace at her funeral.

With my mother gone, I had no protection. I lived under the torment of my stepmother and her daughter, enduring a childhood of abuse.

Then Luke entered my life like a light in the darkness.

He always appeared at my lowest points, lending a hand when I needed it most.

When my stepmother tried to sell me off to a man in his fifties, Luke stepped in, proposed and took me to this city.

I truly believed he was my prince. I thought I was stepping into a happy, stable life.

I had no idea it was all a setup.

Luke had always loved my sister. But my sister loved her freedom and didn’t want to be burdened by family life. So they used me.

They tricked me into marrying him.

I raised their child.

I saved their money.

I cooked, cleaned and served him—just a glorified housemaid under the title of a wife.

I reached up to wipe the tears that had unknowingly spilled down my cheeks.

Then I broke the rose in half. I threw the silver ring into the toilet and flushed it. Finally, I picked up the two marriage certificates and burned them.

Halfway through, the door creaked open.

Luke stepped in.

His nose twitched at the scent of burning paper. He furrowed his brows and snapped.

“What are you doing?”

I quickly threw myself forward, shielding the last bit of the burning paper with my body as the marriage certificates turned to ash.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Luke snapped from behind. “What are you burning? Are you deaf in your old age?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even flinch.

Annoyed by my silence, Luke stormed over to see for himself. But all he found was a pile of ashes. Just as he was about to question me further, Camila walked in.

She was three years younger than me, yet she looked twenty years younger—elegant, radiant, effortlessly beautiful. Standing next to her, I felt like a shadow of myself. I couldn’t help but wonder—if I hadn’t been burdened with endless responsibilities, would I look like that too?

“Sister, why are you hiding at home while everyone else is out having fun?” she asked, wrapping her arm around mine like we were childhood best friends. “Is it because you hate me?”

Her voice was honeyed, her smile sweet, but I could feel the venom underneath.

Luke glanced at me with a smirk. His thoughts were written all over his face: She’s jealous. Jealous because I video chatted with Camila. She’s so old, yet she still throws tantrums like a schoolgirl, always waiting for someone to coax her. Look at her—skin sagging, clinging to childish games. Pathetic.

Camila’s eyes sparkled with mockery, though her tone remained gentle and innocent.

“Oh, sister,” she said, “there’s nothing going on between your husband and me. If there were, do you think you’d even be part of the picture? Honestly, I’m prettier, more more well-mannered—men always go for someone like me.”

Before I could respond, she grabbed my arm and dragged me outside. I resisted, but she was persistent, forcing me to follow her all the way to the restaurant.

As soon as we stepped into the private dining room, something cold and greasy smacked me in the face.

A piece of fatty meat.

Then came the sharp, impatient voice of my grandson.

“I told you not to eat with her! She always shakes when she eats. Every time she lifts her spoon, food ends up all over the table. It’s disgusting! She ruins my appetite. My stomach issues are all her fault!”

I froze. I looked down at my hands—worn, callused, trembling uncontrollably.

Three years ago, he was playing in the street when a car came speeding toward him. I ran without hesitation, threw myself in front of the vehicle and pushed him out of harm’s way. I was thrown nearly five meters and never fully recovered. The trembling had never stopped since.

Back then, he clutched my hands and sobbed, “I’m sorry, Grandma. It’s my fault you’re like this now. I’ll take care of you forever. I’ll never let you get hurt again.”

But now… he had ripped open that wound and stomped on it in front of everyone.

My son frowned, then picked up a bowl, filled it with rice and meat and tossed it on the floor in front of me.

“Mom, you really do kill my appetite. And since Aunt Camila is here today, please don’t ruin her mood. Just sit on the ground and eat.”

Shame rose in my chest like a burning flood.

My fists clenched at my sides. But my stomach was cramping with hunger and in the end, I bent down to pick up the bowl. Just one more day. They’ll leave tomorrow and I’ll be free. I can endure this. Just until tomorrow.

But before my fingers even touched the bowl, my grandson kicked it over.

White rice and chunks of meat splattered across the floor.

Before I could react, he pointed his finger at my nose and shouted, “Didn’t I tell you not to eat with us? You said you didn’t want to be my grandma anymore. So you’re not family. Get out. You’re not welcome here!”

I stood frozen, unable to speak, unable to move.

Then Luke shoved me toward the door.

His eyes were cold with contempt. “I told you not to speak recklessly. Who told you to give the child to Camila? And now what? Regret it? Well, too late. Today’s supposed to be a good day. Don’t ruin the mood. You don’t need to eat. Wait outside. I’ll bring you leftovers later.”

And with that, he slammed the door in my face.

I stood there, humiliated, as passing strangers glanced at me with curious, pitiful eyes. I felt stripped bare—exposed, degraded.

Just then, the door creaked open again. Camila appeared, holding a steaming bowl of soup in her hands.

“Sister,” she said sweetly, “don’t be upset over what a child said. I brought you some soup. Drink it while it’s still hot.”

I opened my mouth to refuse, but in the next moment—before I could utter a single word—she tilted the bowl and poured the soup onto her own hands.

She let out a shriek.

“Oh no, Sister! I know you’ve never liked me, but did you have to scald me with hot water? These hands… I need them to play the piano!”

Before I could defend myself, Luke stormed out—and his palm crashed against my cheek.

“Joanna Jenkins, that’s enough! What did your sister ever do to deserve this kind of treatment? No matter what, she always cared about you as her older sister!”

Luke jabbed a finger toward my face as he scolded me, his eyes filled with undisguised disgust.

I held my throbbing cheek, still stinging from his slap and was just about to respond when my grandson hurled a pot of scalding soup at my face.

The searing heat burned through my skin. I couldn’t even open my eyes. A sharp scream tore from my throat.

“You bully my aunt! You pig! I’ll scald you to death!” Peter stood there with arms crossed, his glare full of hatred.

Covering my blistered face, I begged my son and daughter-in-law in a trembling voice, “My face… it’s burning… I can’t see… please, call 911…”

But they didn’t spare me a single glance.

Instead, they rushed to Camila’s side, tending to her as if she were some delicate porcelain. They carried her out of the room and took her to the hospital like she was a national treasure—while leaving me there, alone.

It was the restaurant staff who found me and took pity, helping me to the hospital.

By then, most of my face was covered in angry, oozing blisters. Whatever beauty I once had was long gone. Wrapped in layers of bandages with only my eyes exposed, I looked like something from a nightmare.

I stared at my reflection and laughed bitterly, tears streaming down my cheeks.

This was the family I had spent forty years building. The family I had sacrificed everything for.

What a joke.

Half an hour later, I received a call from Luke, ordering me to meet them immediately at an address he sent. He said we needed to take a family photo.

I didn’t want to go, but to avoid suspicion, I dragged my battered body to the appointment.

When I arrived, Luke and his son's family were fawning over Camila. They served her tea, massaged her legs and shoulders—showering her with care I had never received, no matter how hard I worked.

The moment they noticed me, their eyes were filled with disdain. All of them, except Camila, who smiled sweetly and waved.

“Sister, come over here! Let’s take a family photo together.”

She reached out and pulled me toward the camera.

“I want to stand next to Auntie!” my grandson shouted, running over and shoving me aside to get to Camila.

My son followed suit, walking up to her with stars in his eyes. And then Luke moved in as well, standing so close beside her that from a distance, it looked like she was leaning against his chest.

Without even realizing it, I had been pushed out of the frame. I stood there awkwardly, a stranger at my own family photo.

Then Camila's eyes landed on my bracelet. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “Sister, your bracelet is stunning! It’s totally my style. Can I borrow it for a photo?”

I instinctively pulled my hand back. “No, that was my mother’s. She left it to me.”

The very next moment, Luke seized my wrist and yanked it off.

“It’s just for a picture! Your mom won’t lose anything. I’ll return it later.”

My heart dropped. I reached to take it back, but he shoved me violently.

I stumbled backward off the platform, landing hard. My foot twisted unnaturally and pain exploded through me. I cried out, unable to hold back the tears.

But Luke didn’t even glance at me. Instead, he lovingly slipped the bracelet onto Camila’s wrist and wrapped his arm around her for the photo.

Camila turned to look at me, her voice syrupy sweet but her eyes smug.

“Oh no, Sister seems badly hurt. Should we call an ambulance?”

Luke scoffed. “She’s faking it. She always plays the victim. This stage isn’t even high—there’s no way she hurt herself. She just wants attention.”

My son nodded. “Auntie’s right. My mom always exaggerates. Just ignore her. She’ll stop once she realizes no one’s watching.”

No one helped me. No one cared. They continued their cheerful photoshoot while I crawled, crying, out of the studio—dragging my injured leg to the hospital on my own.

Just as they finished casting my broken leg, Luke stormed into the room, his expression furious.

“Joanna, how could you be so vicious?! It was just a bracelet for a photo and now you’ve poisoned it? Camila’s in the ICU with a full-body allergic reaction!”

I shook my head weakly. “I didn’t…”

Before I could finish, he hurled the bracelet to the ground.

“You love this bracelet, don’t you? I’ll make sure you really treasure it now!”

My heart cracked. Ignoring the IV in my arm, I dragged myself off the bed and crawled to gather the shattered pieces.

He stared down at me in disgust. “Thanks to you, we can’t even go to Italy anymore. Don’t show yourself around me. Just looking at you makes me sick.”

Tears blurred my vision as I picked up the broken bits of my mother’s bracelet.

Outside the room, I heard laughter.

“Honey, that was brilliant. Now we don’t have to take her on the trip.”

“Even though she said she wouldn’t come, I didn’t believe her. Only by making a scene and completely cutting ties would she stay away.”

I stopped, frozen. I had already told them I wouldn’t go. I was giving them space. And yet, they still didn’t trust me.

They crushed my mother’s last gift and blamed me for everything.

How despicable.

If that’s the way they want to play, then I won’t hold back either.

The day after my hospital discharge, I returned home and opened my safe.

Inside were five property deeds: the house I shared with Luke, my son’s wedding home, the secret house he gifted to Camila… All under my name. All earned by me.

I called a real estate agent and told him, “Sell them all. I don’t care about the price, just do it within six days.”

He agreed.

Six days later, every single property had been sold. I had the entire family’s luggage thrown out onto the street.

Then, a large sum of money appeared in my bank account—more than enough for me to enjoy the rest of my life.

I went to the office, retrieved my passport and booked a flight out of the country.

On the way to the airport, I stopped by a courier service and handed them five neatly packed parcels.

They were addressed to:

– Luke Rivera

– James Rivera

– Lia Grone

– Peter Rivera

– Camila Jenkins

One final gift from me.

I think they’ll like it.

At the airport, while checking in, I saw them returning from Italy. They were all smiling, cheerful, clearly having enjoyed themselves.

My grandson clung to Camila’s hand, full of affection.

“Auntie, I don’t want to leave you! I don’t want to go home to that pig. I want to be with you forever!”

Camila giggled. “Then Auntie will visit you every day, alright? As long as I’m here, that pig won’t come near you.”

They all laughed, casting mocking glances around them.

I laughed too—but mine was one of freedom.

As they wished, they would never see me again.

Luke suddenly turned, sensing my presence.

But it was too late.

I had already boarded the plane.

As we soared through the clouds, I stared out the window and let out a long breath.

Finally… I was free.