They Keep Favoring Her Until I'm Done

When Pierre Pena saw me booking my own ticket, his expression relaxed, as though my decision had settled the matter to his satisfaction.

He reached over to ruffle Charlotte Lefebvre's hair before turning to take my hand.

"Let's go pick out some swimwear," he said casually. "Charlotte and Byron have been taking crash courses in surfing lately, so once we get to Bali, they'll finally get to try it out for real."

Our son, Byron Pena, immediately wrapped his arms around Charlotte's thigh.

"Aunt Charlotte is going to be the prettiest thing on the whole beach!" he gushed.

It was rare for him to be this sweet and affectionate. With me, he'd always kept an inexplicable distance, often looking at me with a cold, faintly contemptuous expression that I could never understand.

Desperate to bridge the gap between us, I'd even looked up the food bloggers he followed online and learned to make every dish he liked.

Yet whenever I eagerly asked whether he enjoyed the dishes I made, he'd scowl, spit the food straight into the trash, and make a dramatic show of gagging.

"Mom, your cooking is disgusting!"

Since the food itself was perfectly fine, I'd assumed it simply wasn't to his taste.

Only now was I beginning to understand the truth: he hated me, and that hatred extended to anything associated with me.

As we drove to the store, I sat in the passenger seat and glanced into the rearview mirror. Byron was nestled comfortably in Charlotte's lap, looking perfectly content.

The moment he caught me watching, though, he stuck out his tongue and spat in my direction. Charlotte covered her mouth and giggled at his reaction.

"You and Byron must have been sworn enemies in a past life! He's honestly the sweetest boy I've ever met, but for some reason, he just can't stand you."

Pierre turned the steering wheel and chimed in as though he were adding to an amusing family anecdote. "Byron definitely loves you more. Every year when he blows out his birthday candles, he wishes his fun, outgoing aunt could be his mom instead."

At that, Charlotte's cheeks flushed bright red. She shot Pierre a shy glance before turning back to tickle Byron's stomach.

"Oh, stop it! You're going to make your mom sad."

Their laughter filled the car, but to me, every chuckle felt like another needle piercing my heart. Looking at the child I'd nearly died bringing into the world, I could only sigh quietly.

Ever since Charlotte had moved in with us, Byron had grown increasingly distant, and I still couldn't understand why.

Perhaps noticing my silence, Pierre leaned over to unbuckle my seat belt. He kissed my forehead gently, apparently hoping to smooth things over.

"It's just a kid's harmless joke. Don't take it to heart."

When we arrived at the swimwear boutique, Pierre initially walked beside me.

However, as we made our way through the store, he gradually drifted toward Charlotte. Before long, Charlotte was holding Byron's hand, while the boy held Pierre's.

The sales associate greeted the three of them with an enthusiastic smile.

"What a beautiful, happy family!"

I lingered a few steps behind them, waiting for someone to notice the mistake. Yet no one turned around, and certainly no one bothered to correct her and clarify things.

As I watched them, my eyes began to burn. Then, just as I was starting to feel completely invisible, Byron picked up a bright pastel-yellow swimsuit and came over to me.

"Mom, you'd look so pretty in this!" he said, his eyes shining with eager anticipation.

Pierre seemed equally pleased and gently nudged me toward the fitting rooms.

"Go try it on! Let's see how good your son's taste is."

For once, I allowed myself to hope that Byron genuinely wanted to make me happy. I took the swimsuit into the fitting room, slipped it on, and carefully smoothed out every little wrinkle as I studied myself in the mirror.

Then I opened the door, expecting at least a compliment from my son.

Instead, a harsh flash went off right in my face.