Too Late: Father & Son's Regret

Vivian's POV

At six in the evening, I finally received Dylan's message—the birthday party had been moved up to five o'clock.

I dropped my lab work and rushed out into the pouring rain to pick up the cake.

When I pushed open the banquet hall door, my long hair was already soaked, rainwater dripping from the ends onto my dress.

Inside, the place was already buzzing with activity. Laughter and the clinking of glasses came from all directions. My gaze swept through the crowd and landed on the central dining table—Allen sat between Dylan and a woman. The woman was holding his hand, leaning toward Dylan, laughing intimately.

I stopped in my tracks.

The smile on my face slowly faded, disappearing completely, leaving only a bone-deep chill.

The pain of that difficult labor was still vivid in my mind. Five years. I had endured for a full five years. And now, all remaining hope shattered into pieces, leaving only endless despair.

I casually set the cake box on a nearby table and grabbed a few tissues, slowly drying the rainwater from my hair.

I was wearing a simple black square-neck dress, my hair loosely pinned up, revealing an elegant swan neck. Even without makeup, I was no less striking than any other guest present.

Before long, I heard people whispering behind me.

"Isn't that Wilson?"

"Yeah, the woman who forced her way into the Hudson family by getting pregnant. Dylan said she's not worthy of being his wife."

Every time I accompanied Dylan to public events, I heard comments like these. Once, these words would have hurt me. Now, I was numb to them.

I smiled slightly at the two guests, and they immediately looked away awkwardly.

I picked up the cake box again and walked toward Allen, step by step.

"Sweetheart, happy birthday." I crouched down in front of him and smiled. "Mommy brought you a present."

However, the boy who had been smiling brightly just moments ago suddenly showed a look of disgust that didn't belong on a child's face. He glared at me and threw the fries in his hand at me.

"Who told you to come! I didn't invite you!"

"Allen." Dylan's deep voice followed, carrying a hint of displeasure.

But all he said was: "Don't throw things. Mind your manners."

He didn't think there was anything wrong with Allen being rude to me.

I had spent five years patiently caring for him, doing everything I could to follow the best parenting methods—only to raise a child like this. I stood up, my voice calm: "Allen, I'm your mother."

"Vivian, kids say things without thinking. Don't take it to heart."

The woman sitting between Allen and Dylan stood up, wearing a red strapless dress, chestnut hair falling softly by her ears, her manner gentle.

Dylan's senior assistant at the company—Hazel Hughes.

"I was just joking with Allen earlier, telling him to tease you a bit. Don't take it seriously," she said with a smile, but I saw the challenge in her eyes.

"So you told my son to be rude to his own mother." I laughed softly. "Truly worthy of being a Hudson Group employee."

"Vivian." Dylan stood up.

Today he was unusually wearing a light silver suit that stood out under the lights. His straight shoulders carried an oppressive presence, and his thin lips and deep eyes equally distant.

When I first walked in, I had caught a glimpse of a gentle smile on his face—directed at Hazel. Now, facing me, he had returned to his usual coldness.

"I know you're upset," he began. "I changed the party time and forgot to notify you in advance. That's my fault. But don't take it out on others."

Hazel was his assistant and also his childhood friend, managing his schedule with one hand, seemingly controlling our lives along the way. On our wedding night, she had scheduled an international meeting for Dylan, leaving me alone in an empty room. Dylan thought there was nothing wrong with that. This time the party time was changed—how could it not have been her arrangement?

But I didn't care anymore.

"It's fine," I raised my chin to look at him. "I just think it's a bit pathetic."

Dylan frowned slightly but didn't ask further.

"I don't want this ugly cake!" Allen suddenly noticed the cake box on the table and slapped it down. The box fell to the floor, cream splattering everywhere. "I want the cake Hazel bought!" He looked up, his eyes fixed eagerly on Hazel.

"That cake contains gluten." I glanced down at the floor, my tone flat. "You'll have an allergic reaction if you eat it."

"It's fine, I bought all organic ingredients. Allen definitely won't be allergic." Hazel smiled at me, her tone thoughtful and attentive.

"Did you buy me a present? Didn't you say you'd get me the limited edition race car?" Allen pushed me hard again. "If you didn't bring a present, then leave! You're useless, not as good as Hazel!"

His push made me stumble backward, creating distance between me and this "family of three." His words were like a needle, piercing straight into my heart.

"You're being so rude to me, so I'm not giving you the present."

Then I heard Dylan say: "Today is Allen's birthday. Are you really going to argue with a child? Don't take your emotions out on him."

His tone was casual, as if I was the one in the wrong.

He moved closer, lowering his voice: "Hazel's family has been going through some things lately. She needs to feel the warmth of a family, so I asked her to spend more time with Allen. Don't be upset."

"You knew this would upset me, but you brought her anyway."

My smile was full of sarcasm. "Dylan, if I said—either Hazel leaves, or we get divorced—what would you choose?"

As I said this, my eyes locked onto his face, not missing any subtle change in expression.

His shock only appeared for an instant, then was hidden behind that stern face, replaced by a barely concealed impatience.

"Vivian, stop making a scene. If you have any complaints, we'll talk about it at home."

"I'm not making a scene, Dylan. I'm serious." I looked at him calmly. "As your wife, I was once proud of you. It's just a shame that we can't make it work in the end."

I had wanted to tell him to find time to discuss the divorce, but Hazel came over, and that sweet voice of hers made my stomach turn.

I turned and walked straight out.

Before leaving, I looked back at Allen and said: "From now on, Hazel is your mother."

The limited edition race car was still in my bag.

I walked out of the banquet hall step by step, my footsteps light, but something in my heart was slowly draining away—I didn't know if it was tears or blood.

Leaving them felt like tearing a piece out of my heart. But staying would only mean slowly rotting away in the daily cycle of giving and being ignored.

If that's the case, then it's time to let go.