Chapter 1

When my business trip finally ended, I came home and pushed open the door.

Frank Horton was sitting in the living room, laughing and chatting with Rachel Sullivan.

It was quiet by the door. My cat Pipi wasn't lying by the door, rolling around and acting spoiled to greet me like he usually did.

My heart tightened.

“Pipi?”

Only then did Frank turn around from the couch and give a faint, indifferent hum.

“Gone for a whole week, and the first thing you do when you come home is look for Pipi. Can’t you see we have a guest?

“Pipi isn't friendly toward Rachel, so I put him in his cage.”

I set down my suitcase and immediately went to the cat house to check on Pipi.

The little guy looked listless. He gently rubbed his head against my palm and let out a pitiful meow.

I crouched in front of the cat house and saw that there was another grape in the cat bowl in the corner.

“Pipi is very well-behaved. He never gets angry at people for no reason.”

I took out the cat bowl and dumped the cat food, grape and all, into the trash, gripping the rim so tightly my fingertips turned white.

“Unless that person means him harm.”

Rachel's face went pale, and her eyes instinctively turned to Frank for help.

Frank caught the signal and immediately frowned at me.

“Willow Newton, are you really going to keep harping on something this trivial?”

“Rachel was just messing around. She wanted Pipi to get used to the taste of grapes beforehand so he wouldn't accidentally eat one in the future. She was doing it for Pipi's own good.

“I'm Pipi's dad. Would I really hurt him?”

I didn't look at Frank. Instead, I turned around, went into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator, preparing to make Pipi some cat food.

The three jars of pickles that had originally been in the refrigerator were gone.

In their place was a homemade cake, grape-flavored.

I lowered my head and saw that the three jars of pickles my mother had painstakingly made and sent me had already been thrown into the trash.

The glass jars had shattered, and the neatly cut cucumber strips, each one carefully prepared for easy consumption, were buried among the broken glass.

A sudden ache rose in my chest.

I remembered the phone call Dad had made a week ago.

“Willow, the cucumbers in our backyard have grown. They're so fresh and crisp.

“Your mom remembers that they're your favorite, so she pickled them and sent them to you. You don't like the seeds, so she specifically deseeded them all for you.

“You and Frank are busy with work, but don't forget to eat breakfast. Mom's pickles go best on sandwiches. When you were little, you could finish two whole sandwiches all by yourself.”

But the pickles my mother had carefully made and sent me—I hadn't even gotten to taste a single bite.

I turned around and walked out of the kitchen, looking at Frank and Rachel, who were sitting on the sofa, laughing and fooling around.

“Who threw out the pickles my dad sent me from the refrigerator?”

Rachel casually turned her head to look at me.

“Sorry, Willow. Your refrigerator is too small. I couldn't keep my handmade cake at room temperature, so I had to take out your pickles to make room for it.”

“It's all Frank's fault. When the house was being renovated, I said we should buy a French-door refrigerator, so I’d have room for more fruits, drinks, and other things I like. He refused and said you'd already decided on the kitchen layout, so it couldn't be changed. I had to make do.”

As she spoke, Rachel punched Frank, sounding as though she was either complaining or acting spoiled.