Chapter 3: The Boy Who Refused Me

**Chapter Two**

In the first few years, we fought almost daily. Ethan hated me and wouldn’t call me Aunt Rachel, let alone my name.

Dinner was a battleground. The kitchen always smelled like burnt toast and nerves. The clink of silverware punctuated by Ethan’s dramatic sighs. I learned to keep my cool even when he hurled insults, knowing that his anger was really a mask for confusion and grief. Sometimes, I’d catch him peeking at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, his expression softening for just a moment.

He’d only ever call me “that woman,” never Aunt Rachel, never my name.

“That woman, the clothes you picked for me today are awful. If I wear them to school, people will laugh me out of the building. I’m not going.”

He’d stand in the doorway, backpack dangling from one shoulder, and glare at me like I’d asked him to wear a clown suit instead of a clean polo. His words stung, but I bit my tongue, knowing he’d grow out of it. Or at least, I hoped so.

“That woman, the chicken soup you made tastes terrible. Even the dog wouldn’t want it. Don’t bring it again.”

Later, Mr. Shaw died overseas and was posthumously accused of falsifying reports, which led to a disaster.

The news came late at night, a phone call that shattered the quiet. My hands shook as I clutched the receiver, the words "falsifying reports" echoing in my ears. The world outside seemed to go silent, the only sound my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.

The Shaw family home was seized, and Grandma Shaw died that very night from anger and grief, coughing up blood.

My knees buckled, and I had to grip the countertop to stay upright.

I was left alone to care for Ethan, and we survived several incredibly difficult years.

Those were the years when the heat would cut out in January, and we'd shiver under mismatched blankets, counting the coins in a coffee tin just to scrape by. The world felt impossibly big and cold, but somehow, we managed. Ethan and I became a team, fighting for every scrap of hope.

It was during those years that our relationship slowly began to improve.

Ethan completely turned himself around.

I worked desperately, sewing late into the night to earn money for his schooling.

The lamp on the table flickered, casting weird shadows over the old Singer sewing machine. My fingers grew raw from the needle, but I kept going, thinking of Ethan’s future with every stitch. Sometimes, he’d leave a mug of tea beside me—no words, just the quiet gesture of a boy who was learning to care in his own way.

Ethan lived up to expectations, passing the SATs, earning scholarships, and eventually rising all the way to a federal judgeship.

The day his acceptance letter arrived, we celebrated with dollar-store cupcakes and off-brand soda. It wasn’t much, but it felt like winning the lottery. When he put on his first suit for court, I had to blink back tears, pretending to fuss with his tie just so he wouldn’t see.

Now, he’d been appointed a federal judge and become a top official, wielding power in court.

With his high position, Ethan’s bearing became even more stern and commanding. Standing there, he commanded respect without even raising his voice, making all the staff and security in the courthouse fall silent, barely daring to breathe.

Not just them—sometimes, even I felt intimidated when I saw him.

It was a strange pride, seeing him stride through the courthouse, his presence enough to hush a crowd. People would straighten up when he walked by, and even the grumpiest bailiff managed a respectful nod. But to me, he was still the kid who’d once asked me to sew patches on his jeans.

Now, I only dared to pressure him to call me mom because I was dying.

Unfortunately, I never got my wish.

As my consciousness faded, I only heard a heartbreaking cry:

“Rachel—”

"Rachel, Rachel, wake up!"

“Do you know what time it is, still sleeping here!”

I groggily opened my eyes.

Sunlight filtered in through ruffled curtains, warming my cheeks. For a split second, I thought I was still in the hospital—until the familiar scent of my mother’s lavender lotion tickled my nose. I blinked, trying to make sense of the change. The world felt softer, lighter.

What met my gaze was a strange yet familiar butter-yellow gauze bed canopy.

Such a soft color would only have been used when I was still an unmarried girl.

My mother sat by the bed, looking disappointed, poking my forehead with her finger.

"Judge Shaw has brought his son to meet you, and you’re still not getting ready!"

Her voice was half-annoyed, half-excited, the way moms get when a big opportunity comes knocking at the door. I could see the edge of a wedding magazine sticking out from under her arm, pages dog-eared and full of hopeful circles.