Revenge Is A Daughter's Sweetest Dish

Name: Revenge Is A Daughter's Sweetest Dish
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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The first time I died, it was from a cancer my mother couldn' t afford. My father, who had left us for his wealthy mistress, refused to pay for my treatment. In a desperate attempt to save me, my mother tried to sell her kidney on the black market. She was scammed and left to die in an alley. She died of an infection a week before I finally succumbed to the cancer, alone in a hospital bed. I' ll never forget him telling my begging mother that his new family had expenses, handing her a few hundred dollars as if she were trash. Then, I opened my eyes. I was fourteen again, healthy, watching the divorce happen all over again. My father looked at me, expecting me to choose my mother. "Blake," he said, "you' ll have to choose who you want to live with." I remembered the hunger, the cold, and my mother' s broken body. I met her tear-filled eyes, my own heart shattering. "I choose Dad."

Betrayal Revenge Divorce Rebirth/Reborn Transactional love

Chapter 16

10-16 21:35

Chapter 1

The first time I died, it was from a cancer my mother couldn' t afford. My father, who had left us for his wealthy mistress, refused to pay for my treatment.

In a desperate attempt to save me, my mother tried to sell her kidney on the black market. She was scammed and left to die in an alley.

She died of an infection a week before I finally succumbed to the cancer, alone in a hospital bed.

I' ll never forget him telling my begging mother that his new family had expenses, handing her a few hundred dollars as if she were trash.

Then, I opened my eyes. I was fourteen again, healthy, watching the divorce happen all over again.

My father looked at me, expecting me to choose my mother.

"Blake," he said, "you' ll have to choose who you want to live with."

I remembered the hunger, the cold, and my mother' s broken body. I met her tear-filled eyes, my own heart shattering.

"I choose Dad."

Chapter 1

The first time I died, it was from a cancer my mother couldn' t afford to treat. The second time I opened my eyes, I was fourteen again, listening to the man who was my father tell my mother he was leaving her for another woman.

My first life was a lesson in abject poverty. A constant, grinding misery that settled deep in your bones like a chronic illness. My father, Clifton Daniels, left my mother, Edna Brown, with nothing but me. He cut her off completely. For him, a new life meant shedding the old one like a snake sheds its skin, leaving the empty husk behind without a second glance.

Edna, who had been a stay-at-home mom for fifteen years, was thrown into a world that had no place for her. She had no degree, no recent work experience. She took on three jobs-cleaning houses during the day, waiting tables at night, and scrubbing floors at a hospital on weekends. Her hands, once soft, became raw and chapped, perpetually smelling of bleach.

We lived in a cramped, damp apartment where the mold crept up the walls in black, spidery veins. We ate expired food from the discount bin and wore clothes from donation boxes. The hunger was a constant, dull ache in my stomach. The cold was a relentless thief that stole the warmth from our blankets at night.

I watched my mother shrink. The light in her eyes dimmed until it was just a faint flicker. The final blow came when I was diagnosed with leukemia. She begged Clifton for help. I remember the scene with a clarity that still felt like a shard of glass in my gut. She had knelt on the cold, polished floor of his opulent office, her voice cracking as she pleaded for her daughter's life. He had looked down at her, his face a mask of detached pity, and told her his new family had expenses. He handed her a few hundred-dollar bills and had his secretary show her out.

The money wasn't enough. Not even close.

My mother, in a final, desperate act, tried to sell her kidney on the black market. She was scammed, left bleeding in a back alley with nothing. She died of an infection a week before I succumbed to the cancer.

That was the end.

And then, it was the beginning.

I blinked, and the sterile white of the hospital room was gone. I was back in our old house, the one we lived in before the divorce. Sunlight streamed through the living room window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The scent of my mother' s lemon polish hung faintly in the room.

Across from me, on our worn floral sofa, sat my parents. The divorce papers were spread on the coffee table between them like a declaration of war.

"Edna, I' m serious," Clifton said, his voice tight with impatience. "There' s nothing left to discuss. My lawyer will be in touch."

My mother was crying. Not loudly, but with the silent, heartbreaking sobs of someone whose world was collapsing. Her shoulders trembled, and she kept twisting the simple gold band on her finger.

"Clifton, please," she whispered. "Don' t do this. Think about Blake."

I was fourteen. Healthy. The cancer was a ghost of a future that hadn't happened yet. My mother' s hands were still soft. The light in her eyes was still bright.

I was alive. We were alive. And I had a chance to stop the nightmare before it began.

My heart, the one that had stopped beating in a hospital bed, hammered against my ribs. But it wasn't the heart of a fourteen-year-old girl. It was the heart of a twenty-something soul who had seen the absolute worst of the world and learned its cruelest lessons.

Love doesn' t pay the bills. Pride doesn' t fill your stomach. The only thing that matters is survival.

I knew what I had to do. The choice was grotesque, a betrayal of everything a daughter should feel. But it was the only choice.

"It' s not about Blake," Clifton said, his voice cold. "It' s about me. It' s about Karel. I love her. I should have married her all those years ago."

Karel Sellers. His high school sweetheart. The one his wealthy, controlling parents had forced him to break up with. My grandfather, a man who valued pedigree over passion, had deemed Karel, a struggling artist from a poor family, unsuitable. He had arranged Clifton' s marriage to my mother, Edna Brown, a gentle, kind woman from a respectable, if not wealthy, family. She was meant to be a placid, suitable wife for a rising businessman. And for fifteen years, she had been exactly that. She had given up her own small dreams to manage his home, raise his child, and support his career. She had been the perfect, dutiful wife.

And now that my grandfather was dead, his control turned to dust in the grave, Clifton was finally free to chase the ghost of his first love. He was making up for lost time, and my mother and I were just collateral damage.

"What about us?" Edna' s voice was barely audible. "Fifteen years... was it all for nothing?"

"I' m sorry, Edna," he said, but he didn' t sound sorry. He sounded liberated. He couldn' t wait to get out of this house, away from this life, and into the arms of the woman he believed was his true destiny.

He finally turned to me, his expression softening into a practiced look of paternal concern. It was a look I knew was utterly fake. In my first life, I had seen the absolute vacancy behind those eyes.

"Blake," he said gently. "I know this is hard. But your mother and I... we just can' t be together anymore. You' ll have to choose who you want to live with."

He was hoping I' d choose my mother. I could see it in the slight tremor of his smile. It would make everything so much cleaner for him. A clean break. He could pay his child support, see me on weekends, and play the part of a decent, divorced dad without any of the daily inconvenience of actually having a child.

My mother looked at me, her eyes pleading, swimming with tears but also with a desperate, clinging hope. She was sure I would choose her. I was her world.

My gaze flickered from her heartbroken face to my father' s expectant one. I remembered the cold. The hunger. The feeling of the hospital sheets, thin and scratchy against my feverish skin. I remembered the sound of my mother begging on the floor.

I would not let that happen again. Not to me. Not to her.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, a knot of grief and self-loathing. I stood up. My legs felt shaky.

"I choose Dad," I said.

The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Clifton stared at me, his jaw slack. "What did you say?"

My mother just stared, her face frozen in disbelief. The hope in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a look of utter devastation, as if I had physically struck her.

I met her gaze, my own eyes cold and steady. I had to be strong. I had to be cruel. It was the only way.

"I said, I choose Dad," I repeated, my voice clear and unwavering.

A choked sound escaped my mother' s throat. She swayed on the sofa, her hand flying to her chest as if to hold her breaking heart together.

"Blake...?" she whispered, her voice a thread of sound. "Why?"

I walked over to her, ignoring my father' s stunned expression. I leaned down, my face close to hers, and spoke in a low voice meant only for her.

"Because he has money, Mom," I said, each word a carefully placed stone on her chest. "I don' t want to be poor. I don' t want to starve. I don' t want to live in a horrible apartment and wear secondhand clothes. I want a good life."

I needed her to hate me. I needed her to let go. If she fought for me, she would lose everything, just like before. This way, she would be free of the burden of a child, free to start over without me dragging her down. This was my penance, and my gift.

I straightened up and looked at my father.

"I' m ready to go when you are," I said.

He was still staring at me, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a wave of relief so profound it was almost comical. He had gotten what he wanted, a complete and total victory.

He stood up, smoothing his expensive suit jacket. "Alright then. Go pack a bag, Blake. Just the essentials for now. We' ll send for the rest later."

He walked out of the room to make a call, already moving on. He didn' t look at my mother. He didn' t have to.

I stood frozen for a moment, the sound of my mother' s ragged breathing filling the silence. I could feel her pain like a physical force, a wave of agony that threatened to pull me under.

I didn' t turn around. I couldn' t.

If I looked at her face, I would break.

I walked out of the living room and up the stairs to my bedroom, my movements stiff and robotic. Behind me, I heard a low, wretched sob. It was the sound of a heart being torn in two.

It was the price of our survival.