I watched from under a skeletal oak as the Maybach door opened not for me, but for his mother in blood‑red velvet and his sister glittering like a discount chandelier. They brushed past my shivering body, mocking my frumpy clothes, warning me to use the “back door” so my “bad luck” wouldn’t infect their fortune. On the swaying, urine‑scented bus, my incision screaming with every pothole, a stranger surrendered her seat while my husband livestreamed hot pot glory: lobsters piled high, champagne fizzing, Ethan bragging about “his” Westgate project and “his” luxury car, lying that I was “resting at home.” When our grimy bus rolled beside my Maybach at a red light, I stared through the rain‑streaked glass at the valet parking it like a crown jewel, and something inside me snapped back into place. I dialed the number I’d avoided for two years. “Dad,” I whispered, voice raw and steady, “come get your grandson. I’m done being their doo… Continues…