Chapter 1

My husband, Mark, was a pharmaceutical giant. The day he perfected the “Lethean Elixir,” a drug designed to erase deep-seated emotions, our son, Ethan, finally cracked a smile. “Can we give this to Mom?” he asked, “So she won’t love us anymore?”

Mark nodded resolutely. Ethan brought the elixir to me, a syrupy green concoction, and with a practiced lie, convinced me to drink it. I gave a bitter laugh and downed it in one gulp. Father and son exchanged relieved glances. They were finally free to be with her.

But why, then, did they weep and wail later, “Don’t you love us at all anymore?”

When Ethan brought me the murky green liquid, I knew what was coming. I didn’t take the glass, just stared at him, a silent, heavy gaze I’d never leveled at him before. Fifteen years, gone. I knew exactly what that drink was: Lethean Elixir, Mark’s company’s latest breakthrough. A simple name for a complex drug: it severed your strongest emotional attachments. And I loved Mark. I loved Ethan. Fiercely.

A psychic once told me I had a sensitive soul, prone to being consumed by emotions. She was right. I’d been with Mark for eighteen years, from his days tinkering in our basement to his corner office in the pharmaceutical tower. We had Ethan, and for fifteen years, I’d nurtured him from a helpless infant into a brilliant, if aloof, teenager. They were my world. My love for them was visceral, instinctive.

But when Ethan was eight, Mark’s “first love,” Amelia, reappeared. Long dark hair, flowing white dress, a captivating smile. “Hey, Marky,” she’d said with a playful wave, “You’re not as cute as you used to be.” Mark, successful and powerful, melted like butter. He’d claimed to despise Amelia for choosing a life abroad over him, yet here he was, captivated. It was me who’d pulled him back from the brink of despair all those years ago, who’d helped him build his empire from scratch.

Ethan, always reserved and analytical like his father, was equally smitten. When Amelia ruffled his hair, he’d blushed, stammering out a shy, “Hi, Amelia.” Just like that, they became a tight-knit trio, and I, the outsider. My protests, my tears, my desperate pleas were met with a dismissive, “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Amelia, sensing the turmoil, left a note for Mark, saying she was returning the family to me. Then she vanished. Her departure didn’t fix anything. Mark clutched the note, eyes blazing, blaming me for driving her away. Ethan, his face contorted with rage, hurled his backpack at me, vowing never to call me “Mom” again.

The life drained out of our home. Mark moved into his office, refusing to share my bed. Ethan, for seven long years, barely acknowledged my existence. And now, he was offering me tea. Eagerly awaiting my compliance.

The green liquid swirled in the glass. Ethan’s hands trembled slightly; at fifteen, the charade was clearly a strain. “What kind of tea is this?” I asked, even though I knew. A flicker of hope, perhaps, a pathetic sliver of denial.

“Just regular tea, Mom. Drink it,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. He’d learned to lie. I looked away, trying to maintain composure. “Where’s your father? It’s my birthday. He could at least bring me a cake.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. Seven birthdays, ignored.

“Your birthday? Oh, right…that’s why I came home early,” Ethan stammered, glancing at the doorway. “Dad will be here soon. He’s just… finishing something up.”

The door opened. Mark strode in, impeccably dressed, a flicker of anticipation in his usually stern eyes. Like Ethan, he was waiting for me to drink. Once I did, my “sensitive soul” would be numb. I wouldn’t be a “dramatic” wife, an embarrassment. He and Ethan could embrace Amelia without reservation. And I, no longer loving them, wouldn’t care. That was their plan.

I scoffed and took the glass. Mark hesitated at the doorway. “Did you forget my present?” I asked, knowing he hadn’t bought one. He frowned. It had become a habit; a constant expression of impatience whenever he addressed me.

“Dad, it’s her birthday! You said you got her a gift,” Ethan jumped in.

Mark feigned realization. “Right! Of course. I got you… that piano you wanted. It’s at the office. I’ll bring it tomorrow.” His lie was smoother than Ethan’s, delivered with practiced indifference.

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the swirling liquid. Father and son fell silent. An eerie stillness descended. They were waiting.

I wasn’t going to drink it. Eighteen years of devotion curdled into bitter resentment. How could I just comply? They were still lying to me, pretending to remember my birthday. I was going to tear down their facade.

“Thanks,” I said, placing the glass firmly on the table. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Drink it anyway. It’s from Ethan,” Mark’s voice sharpened with urgency. He picked up the glass and offered it to me again. “Drink it. Don’t upset your son.” Ethan nodded vigorously.

I wanted to laugh. A harsh, bitter laugh. “There’s no rush. It won’t interfere with your reunion with Amelia, will it? Is she waiting?” I’d suspected Amelia was back. Why else would Mark be working late at the lab, tirelessly perfecting the elixir?

Mark’s face paled. His grip on the glass tightened. He knew I was on to them. Ethan, his youthful facade crumbling, looked equally guilty.

“Don’t worry,” I sneered. “I just wondered if this was all part of a plan. You, Ethan, and Amelia.” The elixir had been in development for years. Had I been a target all along?

“Fine,” Mark said, regaining his composure. “Since you know, there’s no point hiding it. We’ve been considering this for seven years. You’re impossible, a shrew!”

“I wouldn’t abandon my wife, and Ethan wouldn’t sever ties with his mother. So the elixir was the best solution. To make you… normal.”

Normal? So, loving them was abnormal?

“Hilarious,” I said, giving them a sarcastic thumbs-up.

Mark, unaccustomed to my defiance, snapped. “What’s so funny? Just drink it!” He jabbed a finger at the glass.

Ethan chimed in, “Drink it! Then I’ll still be your son. Otherwise, we’re done!”

Perfect.

“Fine,” I said, picking up the glass. “I’ll drink it.” All my questions, all my love, had evaporated. It was time. Father and son watched, eyes bright with anticipation. I raised the glass and drained it in one long swallow. Let it tear my sensitive soul to shreds. I was done with them.

The bitter taste triggered a wave of dizziness. I slept for two days straight. On the third morning, I woke up in my familiar bed. Everything looked the same. I was still, technically, the lady of the house. I glanced at the clock: 7:35 AM. Panic surged. I jumped out of bed, rushing to make Ethan’s favorite breakfast.

Mid-stride, I froze. What was I doing? Maternal instinct, a powerful force. But beneath it, a strange revulsion simmered. Ethan’s perpetually sullen face, his seven-year rejection… it disgusted me. He was nothing. I should have had a dog.

I turned back, flinging open the bedroom windows – windows I’d kept shut for years, a symptom of my self-imposed isolation. Sunlight streamed in. I squinted, looking out at the rose bushes I’d planted. Vibrant, colorful, bursting with life. I remembered Mark holding me close, whispering, “Lily, you’re my rose. You bloom in my life, filling it with beauty.”

Nausea twisted in my gut. How sickeningly sweet. Back then, it had brought tears to my eyes. Now, it made me gag. I wasn’t anyone’s rose. I was my own damn rose. I wouldn’t bloom for anyone but myself. A thrill of liberation coursed through me. The elixir was working. I practically skipped to my vanity table and started rummaging through my makeup. I hadn’t bothered with it in years. Mark never took me out anymore, and Ethan wouldn’t let me near his school. I’d become a recluse, indifferent to the luxuries I once enjoyed. Now, my interest was piqued.

Thirty minutes later, I stared at my reflection. Hair up, lips a vibrant red, a striking resemblance to my roses. Lily Morris, still got it. I raided my closet, trying on designer dresses I’d never worn, gifts from… who knows? I settled on a white dress, perfect for a rose. Beautiful.

Lily Morris, definitely still got it. A flicker of memory surfaced: I used to love white dresses. Mark loved them too. He said I looked most beautiful in the white dress I wore playing piano at our college talent show. After we married, I kept wearing them, just for him. Until Amelia showed up, hair up, white dress… and I became the stand-in.

I chuckled, heading up to the third-floor music room. The housekeeper kept it spotless, but I hadn’t touched the piano in years. Not since Amelia. I ran my fingers over the keys, a strange sense of detachment washing over me. The door opened. “Hey! You’re awake? Where’s breakfast? I’m going to be late for school,” Ethan grumbled.

We had housekeepers, but Ethan’s breakfast was my domain. He only liked my cooking, even after seven years of rejection. My congee, my omelets, my pastries…

I looked at him, a cold indifference settling over me. “Don’t you have hands? Make your own.”

Ethan stared, then a slow grin spread across his face. “You don’t love me anymore! It worked!”

Of course it worked. Ethan immediately called Mark. “Dad, she’s awake! She doesn’t love me! I tested it. We’re free!” He raced downstairs. “Is Amelia there? I want her to come to my parent-teacher conference.”

Blessed silence. I sat down at the piano, wanting to play, to reconnect with the passion I’d abandoned for Mark. I’d been a music major, a rising star after that talent show. My professors had sung my praises. Then I fell in love, and my dreams became Mark’s. I’d even sold my piano to help him during his lean years.

I was about to start playing when Ethan reappeared, phone in hand, pointing it at me. “Dad, Amelia, look! Hair up, white dress… she’s copying Amelia!” He sounded disgusted. “I knew something was off! She’s such a creep!”

He was video-chatting with Mark and Amelia. Mark was shirtless in bed. Amelia, in a silk robe, watched with amusement. She was effortlessly pretty, still looking youthful despite being my age.

I frowned. Mark spoke. “Lily, what are you doing? You’re supposed to not care about me. Who are you trying to impress?”

“Marky, don’t be mean. It’s just a coincidence. I’m sure she’s not trying to copy me,” Amelia said, barely suppressing a giggle.

“She is! She’s so weird! Copying your hair, your dress… pathetic!” Ethan scoffed.

Amelia went quiet, watching me expectantly. I stood up and slapped Ethan across the face.

It was a hard slap. Ethan’s cheek flushed crimson, a trickle of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. He stared at me, stunned. Fifteen years, and I’d never laid a hand on him. Now, I wanted to hit him again.

Mark’s jaw dropped. “Lily! Are you crazy? You hit our son?”

“He’s a spoiled brat who prefers his father’s mistress to his own mother. He deserves it.” I smoothed my hair, tightening the bun.

Ethan’s lips trembled. He backed away slowly. “Amelia is not a mistress! She and Dad knew each other before you…”

“Oh, shut up, mistress. Go make your man some breakfast. Being a trophy wife is hard work.” I turned to Ethan. “And you, get out. You have no right to yell at me. Show some respect.”

Ethan choked on his words, then stormed out, slamming the door. “Fine! We’re done! I don’t need a crazy, violent mother!”

Good riddance. I didn’t care. They both disgusted me. I couldn’t stand to be near them.

I played the piano for a while, rediscovering a lost part of myself. Lily Morris, you’re back. First order of business: leave this house. I packed a bag, ignoring Mark’s theatrical pronouncements of indifference relayed by the housekeeper, Mrs. Davis. I turned back, giving him a small smile. You’re right, Mark. It doesn’t concern you at all. Goodbye.

I moved into my other house and started living for myself. Gym, travel, dance classes, the occasional male escort… and most importantly, piano. I was going to be a pianist. I enrolled in a prestigious music academy, hired a top-notch instructor, and settled into a routine: eat, sleep, piano, male escort, repeat.

Three weeks later, Mrs. Davis called. “Mrs. Morris, I heard you’ve… taken in a boy? Is that wise? Master Ethan is furious. He threw a tantrum and overturned the dinner table.”

“What do I care?” I hung up, leaving the academy. As I walked out, I noticed a teenage boy sitting on the steps, drawing a piano on the pavement with chalk. It was Peter Chen, the prodigy from the advanced program. Fifteen years old, already a seasoned competitor. I’d heard him play – breathtaking. But he was aloof, never spoke to anyone. In the two weeks I’d been there, we hadn’t exchanged a single word.

“Peter,” I said. “Aren’t you going home?”

He looked up, dark hair falling into his eyes. He was strikingly handsome. “Mrs. Morris. I’ll go soon.” He returned to his drawing.

“You know me?”

He nodded. “You’re the best pianist in the adult program. I often listen to you play.”

Interesting. “We should jam sometime. I enjoy your playing too.”

He shook his head sadly. “I can’t. I quit.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, then confided in me. His parents had lost everything, their comfortable life gone overnight. They could no longer afford his lessons. And he wasn’t their biological son; he was adopted. Which made them even less inclined to support his passion.

“I’ll sponsor you,” I offered. “But I get half your prize money from any competitions.”

Peter blinked, stood up, and after a moment’s hesitation, shook my hand. “Deal. You can have all of it.”

Life was funny. I had a new “son,” the same age as Ethan.

Soon, my piano prodigy was calling me “Lily” and making himself at home in my music room. While I enjoyed my ice cream, I’d watch him play, struck by his resemblance to Ethan. Both brilliant, aloof, similar height and build, even their features were strikingly alike. But Ethan was a spoiled brat. Peter was a lone wolf.

He’d even clean my house and cook while I practiced. When I finished, a delicious meal would be waiting. “Dinner’s ready, Lily,” he’d say quietly, removing his apron.

“If you were my son, I’d be beaming,” I teased, sitting down to eat.

Peter blushed, ducking his head. He was adorable.

I wanted to be a mom again.

I was a pretty good mom, it turned out. Three months later, under my wing, Peter won the National Youth Piano Competition. He was a sensation, his talent and good looks making him a viral star. I, his “mom,” was featured prominently in his interviews, the subject of his heartfelt gratitude.

That night, Mrs. Davis called. “Mrs. Morris, I hear you’ve… adopted a son? Is that appropriate? Master Ethan is quite upset. He had another tantrum.”