Chapter 7: Ivy Is More Suited to Be a Good Mother Than You

Helen's POV

"Roxi!"

I snapped at her, my voice sharp with anger I hadn't intended to let loose so quickly.

I never expected her to say something so cruel.

She wasn't even five years old yet. How had she become like this?

Roxi seemed startled by my outburst. First came the disbelief, and then she looked at me with those wounded, aggrieved eyes.

She was the baby I had nearly given half my life to bring into this world.

I had never spoken to her in such a harsh tone before.

But I couldn't stand by and watch her drift further and further down a path of unchecked willfulness.

I drew a slow breath and pressed down the anger still burning in my chest. "Roxi, apologize to the little boy."

Roxi said nothing. Her lips pressed into a tight, stubborn line, and the look she fixed on me carried something that resembled hatred.

My heart softened for just a moment.

I wanted to reason with her, to explain that words sharp enough to wound couldn't simply be said whenever one pleased. And she had smashed someone else's belongings without a second thought — that alone was wrong, regardless of anything else.

But before I could say another word, the door to the hospital room swung open.

Kael walked in.

The instant Roxi saw him, she burst into tears, loud and heaving. "Daddy, Daddy — Mommy is mean, Mommy yelled at me, she'd rather take someone else's side than mine!"

She cried until she could barely catch her breath, as though she intended to wring every last drop of grievance out of her body.

Kael strode forward and pulled her protectively into his arms. Then he turned that razor-edged gaze on me. "Helen Davis — is this how you act as this child's mother?"

His voice was cold, but the anger underneath it was unmistakable.

So we were doing this again. No questions asked, and the blame lands squarely on me.

Two years ago, my daughter had still been gentle. She had understood right from wrong. Even at three years old, all it took was a patient conversation and she would listen, truly listen. But over these past two years, Kael had indulged her every whim, Ivy had coddled and flattered her, and between the two of them, they had shaped her into this — headstrong, imperious, impossible.

I had nothing left to say to him. I took the little boy by the hand and turned toward the door.

Kael apparently hadn't expected that reaction. His voice followed me, sharp and indignant. "Helen Davis, what kind of attitude is that? Am I wrong? Ivy is far more suited to be a good mother than you are."

That made me laugh despite myself. I turned back and met his gaze directly. "You're right. She's a wonderful mother, and you're a wonderful father — a perfect pair, truly. But if the two of you are so wonderfully suited for parenthood, how is it that neither of you knew your own daughter is allergic to peanuts?"

Kael went silent. The righteousness drained from his expression for just a moment before it returned, defiant as ever. "You never told me that."

I almost laughed again.

They held themselves up as more capable parents than I was, and yet I was still supposed to brief them on everything?

I had no desire to keep arguing, but for Roxi's sake, certain things needed to be said clearly.

I steadied myself and spoke in a flat, even tone. "Then I'm telling you now. I'll say it once, so listen carefully. Roxi's digestive system is sensitive — she can't overeat, can't eat too fast, can't eat anything cold, and can't eat anything hard to digest. She's not only allergic to peanuts; she's also allergic to hazelnuts, mango, and Chinese yam. She needs a dental check every six months and an eye exam every year."

I went through every restriction, every precaution, without pausing.

Then I called Thelma into the room and gave her clear instructions: "From now on, if Roxi has any health concerns, contact her father first."

It wasn't said out of spite. After the divorce, Kael was Roxi's primary guardian. These things simply needed to be made clear.

With that, I didn't wait to see how either of them reacted. I walked out of the hospital room.

I had gone some distance down the corridor before I realized there was a small shadow still trailing behind me.

The little boy I had helped earlier.

When I didn't speak, he didn't speak either. He simply followed, quiet and close.

I looked at him. He looked back at me, his eyes full of a concern that seemed too old for his face.

What a thoughtful, well-mannered child.

I crouched down in front of him and glanced at the robot parts he was still clutching tightly to his chest. I smoothed a hand gently over his soft hair. "Little one, if you trust me, I can fix your robot. What do you say?"

"You can really fix it?"

His eyes lit up.

I couldn't help smiling. "Of course I can."

I had designed it myself, after all. Repairing it would be no trouble. But seeing how genuinely attached he was to it, an idea came to me. "If you'd like, we can fix it together. How does that sound?"

"Okay."

The sadness that had been weighing on him lifted all at once, and he smiled — the kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

I walked him back to his room, and through our conversation I learned his name: Lowell. When we set to work on the repairs, he was more practiced than I had anticipated, handling each component with a careful, almost reverent delicacy, as though he was afraid that even the lightest touch might break something.

I asked him, "Why do you love this robot so much?"

Lowell was quiet for a moment before he answered in a small voice. "It was the last gift my mom gave me. She and my dad are both gone now."

As he said it, his fingers moved slowly over the surface of the robot — a gentle, habitual motion, like reaching for something that could no longer reach back.

A dull ache settled in my chest. No wonder he seemed so quietly composed for his age, the kind of composure that made your heart ache to witness.

I smiled at him softly. "Then we're a little alike. My parents are gone too."

He looked up at me, startled.

"What is it?" I asked, amused.

He held my gaze with an expression of complete seriousness. "You don't have to pretend to be happy just to make me feel better. You don't have to hold it in. My little uncle always says that tears are the body's built-in drainage system — might as well use them."

I couldn't hold back the laughter. I had come in with a whole speech prepared to comfort him, and instead, somehow, he had been the one to ease something in me.

His parents were gone, which meant the little uncle he mentioned was likely his guardian. But by the time I left, I had yet to see any sign of this uncle. Lowell didn't cry or fuss about it. He simply sat on the hospital bed, small and self-contained, turning the robot pieces over in his hands as though solitude were something he had long since learned to live with.

The child had been unaccounted for four or five hours. Wherever his family was, they hadn't come looking. I didn't know whether to call that uncle careless or simply irresponsible.

---

By the time I got home, it was past ten at night.

A full day and night without rest — I was running on empty. I showered quickly, climbed into bed, and had barely reached for the lamp when my phone rang.

It was Cavell.

I picked up. "What's wrong?"

"Do you have anything going on tomorrow?" he asked. "I need a favor."

I checked the date. Tomorrow was Saturday. No work.

"Nothing planned. What is it?"

"Here's the thing," he said. "Angel's Children's Home — you've heard of it, right? It started as a charity founded by a philanthropist years ago, always underfunded, medical facilities in rough shape. About six months ago, a donor came through — a businessman who set up a dedicated foundation and put serious money into rebuilding the medical complex on-site. Tomorrow is the inauguration ceremony, and they're hosting a large-scale free health screening for all the children in the home. Our hospital has a partnership with them, but we can't spare many doctors. I need you to come and help for the day."

I hesitated. "I'm not sure —"

"Not sure about what," he cut in, before I could finish. "It's a public health event. Basic screenings, routine checkups, some minor treatment. Are you telling me this is going to be too much for someone with dual degrees in biomedical science and computational intelligence? It's settled. I'm sending you the address. Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon — meet me at the home."

He hung up without giving me a chance to respond.

I stared at the phone, somewhere between exasperated and amused.

Still, it was a good cause, and it was within my ability to help. I had no real reason to decline.

I set an alarm — deliberately pushed back by an hour, enough to arrive after the inauguration ceremony had wrapped up. I was there to work, not to sit through formalities.

What I could not have anticipated was finding Kael there.

The ceremony had just ended when I arrived, and he was stepping down from the stage — impeccably dressed as always, his posture unhurried and composed.

So the businessman Cavell had mentioned, the one who had established the foundation and funded the reconstruction of the medical building, was Kael.

Cavell materialized silently at my side. "You know, if you'd come when I told you — two o'clock, like a normal person — you wouldn't have missed your husband's moment in the spotlight."