On my birthday, my eleven-year-old son used his dad's phone to post on Facebook, “Happy 15th anniversary to Mom and Dad. I love you both!” The video background showed a cozy bed covered in heart-shaped rose petals. My husband stood at the foot of the bed, handing a gift to his first love. I recognized the logo on the box—it's a luxury lingerie brand from abroad. They had blocked my phone number to avoid any interruptions to their romantic escapade. I blew out the birthday candles in front of me and sent a message: "Osman, I agree to the divorce."

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Seconds after sending the message, Osman called. Normally, when he received a text from me, he'd respond with a simple "Oh," "Mm," or "Okay." But now, surprisingly, he called. "Leona, what are you plotting this time? Aren't you tired of your scheming?" Suppressing the urge to explain, I calmly replied, "Tired, yes. That's why we should divorce so you won't have to deal with any more schemes." There was a brief silence before he replied disdainfully, "Karter is the future heir of the Young family; he can't be associated with a mother like you." Then, I heard a familiar voice on the phone: "Aunt Mina, can I call you mom in the future?" Like father, like son—both equally cold and arrogant.

In the past, when Karter refused to call me 'mom,' I'd hold him and cry until my heart ached. But now, I found it laughable. I relaxed my grip, my tone icy, "I don't want custody. Come back soon to sign the papers." Hanging up, I began packing my bags. For twelve years, I treated this as my home. Like a bird building a nest, I would slowly buy things that Osman and Karter liked to fill this space and fill my heart. Now, looking at the packed house, I gathered only a few clothes. I stuffed the miscellaneous items into storage boxes, asking the housekeeper to take them out and toss them. Decluttering is about this—discarding unimportant people and objects. Just as I was about to leave with my suitcase, the door opened—Osman and Karter had returned. They looked angry, their faces clouded with rage. Osman tossed his jacket aside and shouted, "You ruined our anniversary! Why do you have to be so manipulative?" I didn’t want to argue, only reminding him, "Sign the divorce papers on the table and make sure to finalize it at the registry next month." With that, I left without looking back.

Karter called after me, "Stop right there, take all these with you! I don't want this cheap, market stuff!" I glanced at the clothes he had thrown out. I had made these by hand; Karter's skin always got allergic reactions with the changing seasons. The doctor recommended handcrafted cotton clothes to reduce the chance of allergies. Since then, I'd make him two sets each month. If I couldn't finish them in time, I'd stay up all night, working until my eyes were painfully strained. In the past, whenever I finished a set, he would wear it excitedly, eager to show off that his mom made it. Ever since Mina returned and told him these were just unbranded market items, a disgrace to the Young family, Karter stopped liking these clothes. He hid them deep in his wardrobe, replacing them with the "international brands" Mina praised—to flaunt his status as the Young family's eldest son. Seeing that I didn’t react, Karter shouted again, "Hey, I'm talking to you! Didn't you hear me?" Ignoring him, I turned to the housekeeper and said, "Please help me throw these away too, or donate them to kids in need. Do as you see fit."

Leaving the Young family estate, I headed straight for my old neighborhood. Years had passed since I last visited, and now it lay abandoned, covered in fallen leaves and dust.

When Karter was little, I often tried to convince Osman to accompany me back here. He would always say that if he were seen in such a place, reporters would concoct stories that could affect the company's stock price. So I snuck back a few times with our son. Back then, the neighborhood was lively, filled with children, and Karter had a blast playing there.

Later, Pearl found out and reprimanded me. She said that as a member of the Young family, I should behave like a proper lady of wealth, not constantly return to my childhood home. She insisted that letting Karter play in the dirt like a commoner would harm the family's reputation. Since then, Karter lost interest in returning, and I couldn't come back either.

“Ma’am, are you looking for my dad? We live on the second floor,” chirped a sweet little girl's voice, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I crouched down to her level. “Who’s your dad? Why haven’t you moved out yet?”

She giggled. “My dad is Vance Campbell. He said he’s waiting for an aunt here, and I’ve seen photos—it looks just like you.”

Just as she finished, Vance came running up, a little out of breath. “Laylani, you wandered off again—”

His eyes widened with delight when he saw me. “Leona? What brings you back here?”

I looked at my old friend, smiling slightly. “It's like you knew I'd come back. Why are you living here instead of in a mansion?”

Vance and I had grown up together, almost like childhood sweethearts, but his family moved abroad, and we rarely saw each other after that. He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, a hint of blush on his cheeks. “I’m holding on to memories.”

Laylani gently tugged at my hand. “Ma’am, I want to give you this candy; it’s really good.”

Vance explained, “That's her favorite candy. She never gives it away, not even to me, which means she really likes you.”

I picked Laylani up. “Come on, let’s go find something tasty to eat.”

That meal was the best I’d had in years. The three of us laughed and snapped countless photos at a fondue restaurant. For once, there was no need to worry about impressions, catering to others' tastes, or watching anyone's reactions. That night, for the first time in ages, I didn’t suffer from insomnia and fell into a deep sleep without any sleeping pills.

The next morning, my phone rang, waking me up.

“Leona, where did you put my favorite tie and cufflinks?” Osman was always making sure I was available whenever he needed something.

Suppressing my morning grumpiness, I responded coldly, “Left side of the wardrobe, third drawer.”

I heard the sound of the drawer being opened and closed, followed by his voice, “How does Karter take his supplements? He didn’t have any yesterday and is complaining about a stomach ache this morning.”

Karter, being born prematurely, had always had a sensitive stomach and had been taking supplements daily since birth. As he grew older, I reduced the dosage and started making him health tonics for better digestion. It had been ages since he last complained of stomach pains. But now, just two days after I’d left, he was unwell again.

I sighed and said, “Check the instructions carefully. If it’s too much trouble, you can ask Mina to help him.”

Ending the call, I went back to sleep.