Chapter 2
The dignity I had put on like armor began to crack the moment I drove away from the estate. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white.
The engine's humming repeated in my ears, just like Phoenix's voice in my mind—calm, polite, distant.
I told myself to stay calm. I told myself I should have seen this day coming. I told myself I was an adult who could handle this situation gracefully.
But damn, this was so fucking hard.
The car turned into the street where my studio was located. There was no grandeur of the Blackwood estate here, no perfectly manicured lawns—just ordinary red brick buildings and slightly worn shop signs. This was my world, real and rough.
I parked the car and took a deep breath.
The sound of the key turning in the lock was particularly crisp. I pushed open the door, and the familiar scent of clay greeted me. In the dim light, I could see the unfinished vase sitting quietly on the pottery wheel.
This was what I had made for Phoenix yesterday. A white vase with clean lines. I had imagined how it would look on his desk.
Now it seemed ridiculous.
I walked toward the vase, my fingers gently stroking its smooth surface. Just yesterday, I had been proud of this piece. I imagined the light that would flicker in Phoenix's eyes when he saw it, imagined what praise he might offer.
'I'm such a fool.'
My emotional defenses finally collapsed completely at this moment.
I lifted the vase with both hands and smashed it against the floor.
"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!"
Ceramic fragments scattered everywhere, the crisp sound of breaking echoing through the empty studio. I knelt down, my knees hitting the cold floor, tears finally bursting forth like a dam breaking.
I wrapped my arms around myself, the rough fabric of my sleeve reminding me of the worn sweater Mom used to wear. Her face, pale and thin, flashed in my mind.
"Mom, you were right. We'll always be outsiders."
Mentioning Mom brought more tears. I wrapped my arms around myself, curling up on the floor like when Mom used to hold me as a crying child.
But now no one could hold me.
Mom raised me alone, never depending on anyone. She taught me independence, taught me strength, and taught me never to trust that those high above would truly love people like us.
But I still betrayed her teaching.
I thought of Mom's final days, those painful times spent in the hospital ward.
"Sera..." Mom's voice was as weak as a feather in the wind. "Come here, sit here."
I held her pale hand, feeling her palm's warmth disappearing bit by bit.
"Mom, don't talk. Rest."
"No, I must tell you." She gripped my hand tightly, her eyes flickering with their former light. "Sera, we were born beneath them... Men will only toy with our feelings. Promise me, never repeat my mistakes."
I thought she was delirious then, that the medication was making her say these strange things.
"Mom?"
Her voice suddenly became clear and sharp. "I should have told you... about your father... about your true identity..."
But before she could finish, a nurse came in, saying she needed rest.
That became our last conversation.
I slowly stood up from the floor, wiping away the tears on my face with the back of my hand.
Now I understood Mom's warning. I understood why she always told me to protect myself, to be independent, to never depend on anyone's feelings.
But understanding didn't make the pain disappear.
I got home late at night. The apartment was empty with only me, terrifyingly quiet. I made a cup of tea and sat on the sofa, trying to sort through my chaotic thoughts.
That's when I remembered Mom's belongings. I had always kept them in my bedroom closet. Except for some photos and jewelry, I hadn't carefully looked through most of the items.
I went into the bedroom and opened the cardboard box at the bottom of the closet. Inside were Mom's old diary, some old photos, and some documents I didn't recognize.
At the bottom of the box, I found a sealed white envelope.
Written on the envelope: DNA Test Report.
The date was one week before Mom's death.
'Why did Mom get a DNA test? What other secrets didn't she tell me?'
I stared at that envelope as if it might explode at any moment. Mom had never mentioned anything about DNA testing. Why would she do such a test in her final days? What was she looking for? Or rather, what was she trying to prove?
Countless possibilities flooded my mind, each one making me uneasy.
Was this test about my background? About my father?
I picked up the envelope, only to set it down once more.
