This decade-long marriage had fooled me into believing that I could walk beside him as an equal.

Like every novel, I thought it would eventually lead to a happy ending.

But the story ended, and life carried on.

Life was the mundane reality of bills, household chores, and everyday struggles.

It was the subtle condescension that came with being from different worlds, the slow erosion of my voice in this marriage—like a thin layer of sand that gradually built up, separating Daniel and me.

At first, it was just a faint irritation against the skin, barely noticeable.

But over time, those tiny grains became unbearable, grinding into my flesh slowly and painfully.

They became invisible, immeasurable, and impossible to brush away.

I changed into my cleaning company uniform and looked at my reflection in the mirror—a bare face without a trace of jewelry.

Once, this woman wore the finest makeup, dressed in Dior’s latest couture, and held a champagne glass, surrounded by elegance and laughter.

Whether as Mrs. Sterling or a janitor, one thing remained true—before dignity, survival came first.

…

By my second week on the job, I was assigned to an art exhibition hall.

There was an event that day, and the gallery had specifically requested our company’s cleaning services.

My work partner was a teenage boy—skin dark from the sun, thin to the point of malnourishment, but with eyes strikingly bright, like stars in the night sky.

I asked, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

I chuckled. "No way. My daughter is twelve, and by the looks of you, you’re barely thirteen."

The boy’s eyes widened in panic.

"Please, don’t report me. It took me so long to find this job."

I shook my head gently. "I won’t."

After all, who hasn’t struggled at thirteen?

The boy let out a breath of relief and gave me a shy smile.

For the next two hours, he stuck by my side.

Teenagers had endless energy.

"This metal bucket is too heavy, let me carry it."

"I’ll hold the chair for you, be careful not to fall."

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

"Samuel Brown."

Samuel smiled shyly, lifting his face slightly before hesitating and asking cautiously, "Ma’am, can you not see out of your left eye?"

I froze. "How did you notice?"

After all these years, even my husband and daughter had never realized it.

He gestured toward the gaps between the paintings.

"You don’t judge distances accurately when you look at things. Did you lose your vision because of an illness?"

I shook my head.

"No. It was a gunshot wound. I lost it saving my ex-husband and daughter."

His eyes widened.

"Then they must be really grateful to you!"

I tried to smile but found that my lips wouldn’t curve up, leaving only an awkward expression frozen on my face.

"They don’t remember."

I reached up and touched the false eye on my left side, a deep bitterness welling in my heart.

The two people who should have been closest to me knew nothing about the scars in my heart or the wounds on my body.

"Ma’am, don’t cry."

Samuel stood in front of me, at a loss, his small, dark hands gently wiping away my tears.

Was I… crying?

He puffed out his cheeks in frustration.

"They're too thoughtless—it’s their fault! From now on, I’ll carry things for you, I’ll help you measure distances, I’ll be your eyes.

"If anyone dares to bully you, I’ll fight them off for you!"

His innocent, heartfelt words wrapped around me like warmth on a cold day.

At last, my lips curled into a smile.

"Alright, it’s a deal. From now on, Samuel will be my eyes. Let’s pinky promise—no take-backs."

A shy grin spread across his face as he hooked his pinky with mine, swinging our hands back and forth.

"Mm!"

"Pinky promise—cross my heart, no take-backs for a hundred years!"

…

The exhibition hall wasn’t officially open to the public yet.

Only a select few with special invitations were allowed in today.

Samuel and I carefully wiped the dust off the picture frames with cloths.

Not far away, a gentle female voice drifted over.

"Anna, this is a piece by the renowned painter Mr. Tobias. If you like it, I will buy it for you, alright?"

Hearing that familiar name, my body went rigid.

I turned and saw my daughter, Anna Sterling.

She was dressed in a layered princess gown, the delicate tulle cascading like blooming petals. A dazzling eight-carat diamond hairpin shimmered in her hair.

Her arm was looped through Scarlett’s, their closeness undeniable.

"Thank you, Miss Snow. We already have three of Mr. Tobias’s paintings at home. This time, I’d like to see more realist art instead."

Around her stood three or four other children—her friends, all from the same wealthy circle.

It felt as if they knew I would be here.

Scarlett lifted her head, meeting my gaze, a slow, malicious smile spreading across her lips.

Then, in the next second, she deliberately raised her voice and pointed at the painting behind me.

"Anna, what do you think of that one?"

My heart clenched.

I instinctively lifted a hand, wanting to shield my face.

I had never been ashamed of doing physical labor.

However, in front of Anna and her friends, I wanted to preserve at least a shred of dignity.

“Don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me. Please… don’t let my daughter see me like this,” I prayed in silence, but heaven did not listen.

Like a slow-motion scene from a film, Anna turned her head inch by inch—her gaze landing on me.

Scarlett covered her mouth in exaggerated surprise, her tone laced with feigned shock.

"Anna, that janitor looks just like your mother."

Anna’s eyes swept over me—over the cleaning uniform and the cloth in my hand.

Her gaze didn’t linger for even a second.

Without hesitation, she turned away and said, "That’s not my mother. I’ve already told you that my mother is dead."

A deafening roar filled my ears.

The world spun, and I nearly lost my balance.

A sharp edge on the metal frame sliced across my palm, and blood instantly seeped into my skin.

Scarlett laughed.

She pinched Anna’s soft, delicate cheek, smiling sweetly.

"Then what kind of new mommy does little Anna want?"

Anna wrapped her arms around Scarlett, nuzzling into her as she murmured sweetly, "Of course, I want a mommy like you, Miss Snow—smart, beautiful, and always there to play with me."

It felt as if a hand had reached inside my body, squeezing my heart over and over again, then hurling it into a vat of boiling oil.

The searing pain of it shattered me so completely that I could no longer even feel the wound on my palm.

The daughter I carried for ten months, whose birth torn through my body as I screamed in agony for an entire day and night.

The daughter I held in my arms, enduring the raw, cracked pain of nursing, feeding her with my own blood and milk.

The daughter I cradled through countless sleepless nights, gently humming lullabies to lull her to sleep.

Now, she cursed me dead and clung to another woman, calling her "Mommy" with unshaken devotion.

Suddenly, a small, dark figure shot forward like a whirlwind.

Samuel lunged at Anna, knocking her to the ground.

His voice rang out, furious and unyielding.

"Your mother is right here! How can you not see her?!"