Chapter 13
I’d been locked up for a month.
My battle with Lincoln Cohen continued.
Yes, I couldn’t even manage to call him Dad for appearance’s sake anymore-I called him by his full name, Lincoln Cohen.
As for him, he beat me even more viciously. Once I actually passed out.
In that moment I thought I might die, and my real reaction was: What about Mom?
So after waking up that time, I stopped confronting Lincoln head-on.
Whatever he said, I remained silent. Eventually he stopped coming.
I was waiting-waiting for Mom to discover I’d dropped out, waiting for her to come rescue me.
I realized I was wrong. I’d still overestimated Lincoln Cohen’s humanity. What could you expect from a beast who abandoned his wife and daughter?
I should have stayed with Mom.
I couldn’t bear to imagine how much pain Mom would feel if I really died!
Quinn was an extremely contradictory person. Most of the time she was very cold toward me, watching with indifference as Lincoln beat me, scolded me, and imprisoned me.
But she was also the one who brought me food, applied medicine to my wounds, and stayed by my side when I was unconscious.
I asked her why she did this.
She said: “You have a good mother.”
Just one sentence, and I knew Mom had been fighting all along, just like me.
Quinn’s words put my heart at ease.
After another half month, a group of people burst into the house, and I saw sunlight after so long.
Mom charged in first, followed by all my subject teachers, including Mr. Sterling.
Charlotte and Dante stood at the back of the crowd, jumping up and down trying to see me.
There were also some unfamiliar faces in uniforms-even Dad could only act submissively in front of them.
Everyone I recognized started crying the moment they saw me. I tried my best to grin, wanting to tell them I was okay.
Mom held me tightly, like she was holding her lost and recovered treasure, sobbing: “We’ll never be separated again, mother and daughter.”
I buried my face in Mom’s embrace, thinking I’d just lean on her for a little while, just cry for a little while.
Crying must be contagious-I went from quiet sniffling to loud sobbing, unable to stop, and finally cried myself unconscious.
Many years later, after I’d achieved some success, when our “three musketeers” reunited, Dante and Charlotte still teased me about crying myself unconscious.
It became an indelible piece of my silly history!
