Alan Moore drew back, his gaze settling calmly on the daughter he had once cherished like a rare jewel.

"How dare you show your face here?" Alan asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Charlotte, do you remember when you were eight, when the teacher sent you home because your tuition hadn't been paid?"

Charlotte froze.

"That day, I went to the black market and sold my blood," Alan said, his tone detached. "To scrape together that $200, I gave two donations. By the time I walked home, the world was spinning. I couldn't even stand. I collapsed face-first into the snow."

Charlotte’s complexion shifted, her eyes darting away in discomfort.

"I paved the way for you, put you through your PhD, and made sure you could sit in places like this with your head held high," Alan said, studying his daughter's polished makeup. "But what were you doing? While your precious Killian was sitting at my table, slurping the soup I spent hours preparing, and calling me a 'vulgar man' to my face—what were you doing?"

"You just smiled and handed him fruit, agreeing that your father lacked sophistication."

Charlotte opened her mouth, but for a long moment, no sound came out.

"And you, Brody," Alan turned to his son. "When you were five, you threw a tantrum on the floor because I couldn't afford to buy you a candy apple."

"When your mother’s department sent word she wouldn't be back for a long time, I was left to raise both of you while caring for your grandmother, who was paralyzed in bed. For three straight months, I didn't eat a single full meal so you two could have enough. In the end, I passed out from starvation right next to the stove."

Alan let out a soft, dry laugh. "Look at you now. You're grown up. You’ve made something of yourselves."

"At that awards ceremony, you were embarrassed by the food I brought, disgusted by the protective amulet I gave you, calling it superstitious nonsense. Brody, when you were looking down at these rough, calloused hands of mine with such disdain, did you ever stop to think… that the life of luxury you’re enjoying was built, brick by brick, by these very hands?"

"Dad… we were just kids. We didn't know any better," Brody said, his face flushing deep crimson as he ducked his head in shame.

"Didn't know any better?" Alan shook his head. "It wasn't ignorance. You just assumed my sacrifices were your birthright, and that I wasn't worthy of a seat at your table."

"Now that Killian has fallen and there's no one left to wait on you hand and foot, you’ve suddenly remembered I exist?" Alan stood up slowly. "I spent thirty years living for you two. The rest of my life? I want to live it for myself."

"Leave now. Don't come back and make me sick."

It was the first time he had ever truly lost his temper with his children.

Judith Palmer stepped forward quickly, her gaze cutting through Brody and Charlotte like a blade. "I suggest you both walk away. If you harass Alan again, I won't just call the authorities; I will contact your workplaces and expose exactly who you are."

The threat hung heavy in the air. Shaken by Judith's authority and burning under the judgmental stares of passing tourists, Charlotte and Brody could no longer hold their ground. They shielded their faces and scrambled away in a panicked retreat.

Night began to fall. Alan watched their retreating silhouettes until they vanished into the shadows, letting out a long, heavy breath.

"Judith, thank you."

Judith pulled out a chair and sat down, her hand covering his slightly trembling one. "Don't thank me. Your food is getting cold. Finish this meal, and tomorrow, we’ll head out to watch the sunrise. Does that sound good?"

"Yes," Alan nodded, picking up his utensils. This time, his hand didn't shake.

Meanwhile, back in the city, Luciana Moore’s phone exploded with frantic calls that very night. When they had left to chase after Alan, they had left their young grandson, Felix, in the care of a distant relative named Gloria.

By the time Luciana and her children rushed back to the house, heart rates skyrocketing, they were met with the suffocating smell of medicine and the sound of a child crying in the dark.

"Felix!" Charlotte sprinted into the bedroom.

She found her son curled into a ball on the bed, his face flushed with a high fever, his frame looking gaunt and frail.

Gloria sat in the living room, casually eating sunflower seeds and watching television. When she saw them return, she rolled her eyes and groaned, "Finally! You're back."

"This kid is impossible to deal with! He kept complaining his stomach hurt, demanding fish porridge with every single bone picked out. I didn't have time for that nonsense, so I fed him some leftovers and took him to a street stall for a hot dog. Who knew he’d start throwing up and having diarrhea?"

"He has a severe stomach infection! The doctor ordered a strict diet of liquid foods and constant monitoring!" Charlotte screamed, tears streaming down her face.

Gloria shot up, affronted. "Oh, so now it's my fault? If you want to blame someone, blame Alan! He’s the one who spoiled the boy rotten. Who picks the bones out of fish? Who spends two hours boiling porridge? He didn't raise a child; he raised a prince."

Gloria cast a disdainful look at Luciana. "When he was here, none of us realized how hard it was. We all thought, 'How much work could looking after a kid actually be?' Now that he’s gone, the whole house is a disaster. I bet he did this on purpose—he trained the boy to be dependent on him just so he could keep a leash on all of you!"

Luciana stood in the center of the room, staring at the wrecked kitchen and the debris scattered across the floor. She listened to Gloria’s abrasive, piercing words, and she felt like a statue carved from ice.

She had always viewed Alan’s role at home as "easy"—just cooking and minding the kids. Only now did she realize what she had discarded.

It was Alan who had stood by the stove for thirty years. It was Alan who woke up in the middle of the night, every single night, to check the boy’s temperature. He had swallowed every scrap of labor and exhaustion so that she and her children could project an image of effortless perfection to the world.

She had assumed that comfort was a natural law of the universe, never realizing it was being sustained by Alan’s very life.

Charlotte held Felix tight, staring at the familiar yet cold surroundings of her home, and finally, she broke down in uncontrollable sobs.

"Mom," Charlotte looked up, her voice strangled by grief. "Do you think… Dad is really never coming back?"