Part 2The Mouthwash Cup

The maids filled the table with a dazzling array of dishes—roasted chicken, glistening fish, platters of things I couldn’t even name.

Eleanor Richmond took her seat at the head of the table, her smile unwavering. “Please, eat. I hope you find something to your liking. I’m still trying to figure out Kian’s tastes. What did you usually cook for him?”

Mom’s face softened with the memory. “Oh, he’s never been picky. Sautéed potatoes, peppers, green beans… he’ll eat anything you put in front of him.”

Eleanor paused, her fork hovering over a slice of duck. “And what about his favorite splurges? A good steak, perhaps?”

“He… he was never much of a meat-eater, really.”

The lie was so thin it was transparent. Mom’s health was fragile, and just keeping two growing kids fed and in school was a constant struggle. Meat was a luxury we couldn’t afford.

Eleanor’s smile didn’t falter, but it lost its warmth. “Is it that he doesn’t like it,” she murmured, her voice laced with honeyed poison, “or that he couldn’t have it?”

The question hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The silence was deafening.

I instinctively looked at Kian, but he was absorbed in his phone, his thumb scrolling endlessly.

I tried to break the tension. “He loves scrambled eggs,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Mom makes the best.”

Before the words had even settled, Kian let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “It was the closest we ever got to surf and turf.”

A memory stabbed at me. Our neighbor’s hen would occasionally leave an egg on our porch, and Mom would always scramble it with fresh green beans from our tiny garden, dividing it into two small, precious portions. I remembered sitting across from Kian, fighting over the last bite in his bowl.

I’d pouted, half-joking. “I’m never going to grow if you keep eating my eggs!”

Back then, he had laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a tenderness that made my heart ache now to remember. “Okay, okay, you can have mine too,” he’d said, pushing his bowl toward me. “Our Chloe needs to eat up. You’ve got to grow taller than me.”

I dropped my gaze to my lap, a cold wave of confusion washing over me. Three months. How could three months turn someone you loved into a complete stranger? I couldn’t tell if his words were a cruel joke or his new, bitter truth.

Mom placed her fork down and pushed her chair back, pulling me up with her. “We won’t trouble you any longer, Mrs. Richmond. It’s time we were going.”

As we stood, the icy mask on Eleanor’s face suddenly shattered into a performance of warm concern. “Oh, don’t be silly! Kian is just teasing. Please, don’t take him seriously. You’ve done so much for him. I insist you take something as a token of our appreciation. Anything in the house, please, choose whatever you like.”

The villa was a museum of wealth. priceless art, jade statues, rare orchids in porcelain vases. Any single object could have sustained us for a lifetime. My mother frantically waved her hands, refusing, but the maids had already moved to flank us, blocking our path to the door.

Trapped, Mom’s eyes darted around, panicked. Finally, she let me guide her into a quiet, dark side room. On a small vanity table, next to a silver-backed mirror, sat a simple crystal glass. She picked it up, her hands trembling.

“This,” she whispered. “This will be fine.”

From the hallway, I heard a maid stifle a laugh.

“What is it?” Mom asked, her voice shaking. “Is it too valuable…?”

A clap of thunder rattled the windows, and the sky opened up in a sudden downpour.

Eleanor glided over, patting my mother’s hand with practiced sympathy. “It’s nothing, dear. The rain is much too heavy for you to travel. You’ll stay the night.”