Part 3The Mouthwash Cup

The long bus ride had left me exhausted, and Mom was already asleep, her face etched with weariness in the dim lamplight. I’d had too much of the fancy bottled water they’d served and slipped out of the guest room to find a bathroom.

As I crept down the silent, carpeted hallway, I heard voices from behind a partially closed door. It was Eleanor.

“…and right here on my shoulders. God, it’s just disgraceful. Can you imagine the life my son has lived? He never even had a decent meal.”

“You were finally able to bring the young master home, ma’am. That’s what matters. It was too generous of you to offer them a gift.”

“Oh, I have a soft spot, I suppose. They did look after him for years. But it makes my blood boil, thinking of him going hungry, living in some leaky tenement. People like that,” her voice dripped with contempt, “belong in the gutter, picking through trash in a bathroom.”

“Indeed, ma’am. That’s why I made sure to guide them in that direction earlier.”

“You always know what to do, Maria. You’re a treasure.”

I froze, my blood turning to ice. A different maid rounded the corner and saw me standing there. “Are you looking for something, miss?”

It took a few seconds for my voice to work. I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass. “Yes, could you tell me where the restroom is?”

She led me down a small hallway, to the very room where Mom had picked out the crystal glass. My heart sank into a black, bottomless pit.

It was a guest bathroom.

I remembered how the maids had surrounded us, leaving only one narrow path open. A path that led directly here.

The humiliation washed over me, hot and suffocating. I stumbled back to our room, tears blurring my vision, and pulled the carefully wrapped glass from Mom’s purse.

Through the window, the garden was illuminated by soft landscape lighting. And there, on the wet lawn, was Kian, jogging in place. A sleek Doberman stood at his side, watching him with rapt attention.

I ran downstairs. As I reached the patio, Kian pointed to a distant patch of bushes and whistled sharply. “Go get it, Seven!”

The dog shot off, disappearing into the dark foliage and returning a moment later with a small object in its mouth. Kian took it, patted the dog’s head, and then, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it again.

This time, it landed in the middle of the ornate fountain with a soft splash.

And this time, I saw what it was. A small, hand-stitched rag doll.

Kian sighed in frustration and turned. His eyes met mine.

My entire body started to shake, and the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free.

The thing he had just thrown away like garbage was the 18th birthday present I had made for him.