My mother was forced into a divorce. The woman who destroyed our family was my aunt. My mother, who only wanted to keep her child, was coerced into leaving with nothing. On the day of the court hearing, in front of everyone, I announced that I would live with my father. I was twelve years old. My revenge was just beginning. 1 The woman who clawed her way to the top was my mother’s own sister, Isabelle. She was only twenty-six then, with a stunning face and a body that moved with a dancer’s grace. Her eyes held a sly, fox-like charm. A woman like that should have been married, but she wasn’t. The most likely reason was the little girl always at her side—my cousin, whose father was a mystery. My grandparents had worried themselves sick over her. On their deathbeds, they made my mother promise to always look after her “immature” little sister. My mother, honoring their final wish, took Isabelle in, only for Isabelle to crawl into my father’s bed. My mother, a woman of gentle and refined character, couldn’t bear the sight. The betrayal shattered her, and she fell ill. I can still see Isabelle’s tear-streaked face at my mother’s bedside, a pathetic performance of remorse. “Eleanor, I couldn’t help it… I truly couldn’t,” she sobbed. “And… Richard and I… we’ve had feelings for each other for years.” Then, the final blow: “Besides, this isn’t the first time he’s strayed.” A paternity test obliterated the last vestiges of love my mother held for my father. It turned out that my cousin, the girl with the unknown father, was my own half-sister. The double betrayal from her husband and her sister was too much. My mother’s health collapsed. Isabelle was still Isabelle, but I could finally see the wolf hiding beneath the sheep’s clothing. In that moment, it felt as though I grew up overnight. That summer, Isabelle was a constant presence, always weeping, begging my mother to "think of the children" and not make a scene. My mother, believing there might still be a shred of decency in her, considered settling things quietly for my sake. But that wasn't what Isabelle had in mind. “Just divorce him, Eleanor,” she said, her tone suddenly devoid of tears. “Your daughter has had ten years of a happy family. Isn’t it my Sophie’s turn?” “Sophie, darling, go ask your auntie.” She pushed my five-year-old cousin toward the bed. “Auntie Eleanor, please,” Sophie whimpered, her performance as flawless as her mother’s. “You already have Hope. Can’t you please give me my daddy back?” She even managed to squeeze out real tears. Shameless. Utterly shameless. 2 My mother was cornered, and the shameless vulture knew it. Isabelle quit the job my mother had found for her and moved into our house, refusing to leave until she got what she wanted. “The child is here,” she’d declare, shoving Sophie forward. “Do what you want with us.” “Auntie, please don’t hurt me,” Sophie would wail, her eyes like faucets she could turn on at will. The house filled with the constant noise of a child’s crying and my aunt’s histrionics. It was suffocating. Under this constant assault, my mother’s spirit began to crumble. In the days that followed, I overheard her arguments with my father. The ugly truths they screamed at each other painted a filthy picture of the adult world. Sleep became impossible. I’d wander the halls of our old family mansion at night, a ghost in my own home. My father’s family had been in business for generations, and by his time, we were wealthy. My parents had lived in this house, inherited from my grandparents, since their marriage. It was a beautiful old place, and my father was sentimental about it. When parts of the woodwork began to decay, he’d sooner seal off a room than have it replaced. “This house holds all my childhood memories,” he used to say. “Tearing it down would destroy the soul of this place.” He was a man who cherished the past, and he had always been tender and devoted to my mother. I once dreamed of marrying a man just like him. But with the rose-tinted glasses shattered, the real man was uglier than I could have imagined. One night, I saw him sitting alone at the bar downstairs, nursing a drink. The past few days had aged him. “Richard, why are you still up?” A soft, feminine voice drifted from the shadows. It was her. Isabelle, draped in a pale green silk nightgown, stretched languidly in the dim light, a picture of seductive grace. “Can’t sleep. Care to join me for a drink?” she purred, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a delicate glass in the other. Years later, I would often wonder how my father fell for her trap. The only answer I could ever come to was human weakness. The more focused a person is, the more susceptible they are to distraction. There is no such thing as absolute rationality, especially when temptation is dangled so perfectly. Never fight a battle against human nature. You will always lose. 3 After Sophie’s parentage was revealed, Isabelle moved in for good. My mother grew paler each day, but all she could do was cry. Isabelle, with terrifying speed, put down roots. She replaced the maids and the driver. By the time my mother realized what was happening, she was completely isolated. My father, likely tired of the fighting, retreated to his office, leaving my mother and me alone to face the siege. At the dinner table, Isabelle and Sophie acted like the true mistresses of the house, even taking my mother’s and my seats. “What do you want from me?” my mother finally whispered, her spirit broken. Isabelle just smiled. “I only want a better life for Sophie, Eleanor. You’re a mother. Surely you understand.” Her fox-like eyes twinkled, but there was a coldness in them that was terrifying. The invasion wasn’t limited to my mother. Sophie began her own subtle campaign against me. She decided she liked my room and simply moved in, insisting we share it. After dinner, she would make a show of calling my father’s office, only to hang up abruptly the moment I walked in. “You know, Hope,” she’d say, her voice dripping with false sweetness, “I was always so jealous of you. Every time I visited Grandma’s, you had a new dress.” “I used to wish you’d grow up faster, so I could have your hand-me-downs.” She held up a long, floral dress. “But now, I get new clothes too.” It was my size. Her behavior was bizarre and unsettling, a constant, low-level torture. Finally, my mother couldn’t take it anymore. She sat Isabelle down and demanded to know what it would take for her to leave. I expected a screaming match, a final, ugly confrontation. But what happened next shocked me. “I’m leaving this afternoon. I’ve already bought the tickets,” Isabelle said, her voice crisp and final. My mother was stunned. So was I. “Take care of yourself, Eleanor,” she added. “Are you really…” “Yes. I’m a woman of my word. You couldn’t drag me back here if you begged.” The next day, she and Sophie were gone. It all happened so fast, and the relief was intoxicating. “Hope, darling,” my mother said, her smile weak but genuine. “It’s over now. Everything that happened… it’s in the past.” The past few months had been a nightmare. An autumn breeze blew in through the open window, carrying a chill. The potted plant Isabelle had brought as a gift had grown, its leaves swaying in the wind. Would she really leave so easily? My question was answered three days later. My father, who had been avoiding the house for weeks, came home. He came home to fight with my mother. It turned out Isabelle had filed an anonymous tip with the SEC. “Do you have any idea how much trouble I’m in?” he roared. “If my friend on the inside hadn’t warned me, I’d be ruined! Can you just stay away from your sister? All you do is cause problems!” He was genuinely terrified. So terrified that he’d completely forgotten why Isabelle had come to our house in the first place. Defeated, my mother called her. Isabelle didn’t answer all day. Late that night, the phone finally rang. “You were looking for me, Eleanor?” “What do you want, Isabelle? Where are you? Let’s just talk this out.” “So you’re asking me to come back? Is that it? Fine. Then we do this on my terms. A divorce. You get to keep your child. Nothing else.” Compared to my mother’s strained, anxious voice, Isabelle’s was light and airy. In the dead of night, it sounded otherworldly, like a death sentence whispered by a demon. It was the sound of my mother suffocating. 4 The result was exactly what Isabelle had demanded: a divorce. My mother left with nothing. My father, in a magnanimous gesture, said my mother could take me with her. He understood the bond between a mother and child, he said. Left with nothing? Even at my age, I understood what that meant. Isabelle wanted my mother out on the street, without a penny of the family fortune that was rightfully half hers. My mother could have sued, could have charged my father with bigamy, but she didn’t want me to have a father with a criminal record. She chose to endure it. I begged her to fight. I didn't care about my father's reputation. But she insisted I was too young to understand the consequences. So, at the custody hearing, as the judge made his final ruling, I looked my mother in her shocked, disbelieving eyes and chose my father. I had to protect her. She couldn’t be left destitute. Because she didn’t get custody of me, she was forced to renegotiate the settlement. In the end, she walked away with a small but significant portion of my father’s assets. My courtroom stunt had thrown Isabelle for a loop. Her perfect plan was marred by my sudden defiance. But she recovered quickly. “You can still call me Aunt Isabelle, if you like,” she told me later, a triumphant smile on her face. “Or whatever you prefer.” “In this house, you call people by their proper titles,” my father interjected, already completely under her spell. “Then Hope can call me Mom, just like I do,” Sophie chimed in, her eyes wide and innocent. After my mother left, I saw the full extent of Isabelle’s cunning. When it came to understanding my father, my mother never stood a chance. My mother’s concern was that of a wife; Isabelle’s was that of an employee managing her boss. She could manipulate his moods with ease, making her requests at the perfect moment. She was like the proverbial frog in boiling water, slowly tightening her control. For my father, she provided emotional validation. For me, she provided endless psychological abuse. She would parade their “happy family” in front of me, then mock me viciously the moment my father was out of sight. But I had learned to control myself. When things became unbearable, I would visit my mother. As long as I had her, I could endure anything. For her, I had the courage to persist. Isabelle would grow old. I would grow up. One day, I would be strong enough to protect my mother. With that goal in mind, I threw myself into my studies. I excelled, winning awards and competitions. But it wasn’t long before Isabelle, under the guise of “concern for my health,” began to cut back my extracurricular classes. With no way to pay for them myself, I had to give up the things I loved. Sophie, meanwhile, took my place, becoming the star pupil of my former teachers. Even then, Isabelle worried I was “overworking my brain.” The year I started high school, she took an uncharacteristic interest in my grades. Without my consent, she changed my academic track from humanities, which I loved, to science. “It’s for your own good,” she’d say after every blow, smiling that serene, chilling smile. I watched as faint crow's feet appeared around her eyes, but the cruelty in them only sharpened with time. I knew she was only holding back because she hadn’t yet secured the ultimate prize. Six months into the school year, I heard the news. “Hope,” Sophie announced, her voice filled with glee. “I’m going to have a baby brother.” This time, she didn’t even bother with the pretense of “we.” It was her brother. I later found out Isabelle was already seven months along. Despite her age, she had been meticulous, and the pregnancy was stable.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "394707", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel