Chapter 4 I Am So Clumsy

• In the living room, Roger was carefully bandaging Isabella's wound.
• Their heads were so close they were almost touching.
• The moment she saw me come out of the room, Isabella immediately started apologizing in a sweet voice, “Sienna, it's all my fault. I'm so clumsy, I accidentally cut my finger. I guess I'll have to trouble you to cook lunch again.”
• Looking completely at ease, Roger turned to me and instructed, “Isabella's been delicate since she was a child and can't handle hard work. You'll need to take extra care of her.”
• Both children were staring at Isabella with bright eyes, chanting, “Ms. Pretty, the pain will fly away!”
• I had never received such treatment.
• Whenever I accidentally cut my finger and bled, my daughter and son acted like they didn't see it, complaining only that they were hungry and wanted food.
• I worked hard to raise them, but my meticulous care over the years seemed to have made my efforts something they took entirely for granted.
• In my previous life, at this point, Isabella had also immediately put on the airs of a spoiled young lady.
• The children and Roger had treated her just as warmly, leaving me to swallow my bitterness in silence.
• This time, I spoke coldly, “Sorry, I'm not feeling well either. Darling, you know the postpartum complications I've been dealing with.”
• Roger was momentarily stunned, unaccustomed to my indifferent tone. Then his brows furrowed.
• “Then who's going to cook?”
• I shrugged and curled my lips into a smile. “Why don't you cook, Darling? I'm sure Isabella would love to try your cooking, wouldn't you?”
• He blurted out reflexively, “No way!”
• Roger never cooked.
• He firmly believed cooking was women's work. To him, for a man to enter the kitchen was not only shameful but also brought bad luck and financial misfortune.
• Ironically, I'd never seen him earn much money anyway.
• I stepped forward, looking worriedly at Isabella's injured finger. “That's quite a nasty cut, Isabella. Darling, didn't you say we should take good care of her?”
• Roger erupted in anger. “I'm paying her to work, and now I have to take care of her too?”
• Isabella's expression immediately turned sour.
• The atmosphere in the living room subtly shifted.
• See?
• When I humbly served the entire family, it was taken as a matter of course.
• But when it came to him, even cooking one meal was too much to handle.
• Isabella muttered something about feeling unwell and swayed her hips as she stomped back to the bedroom.
• Roger's face tightened with worry as he hurried after her.
• How blind had I been before to think his concern for Isabella was just out of obligation to a friend?
• An hour passed, and neither of them came out of the bedroom.
• The two children started clutching their stomachs and whining about being hungry.
• Standing on the sofa with his shoes on, my son shouted, “Hurry up and make food!”
• My daughter pouted. “It's all your fault for bullying Ms. Sutton! Daddy promised to take us to the amusement park after lunch!”
• In my previous life, as soon as Isabella arrived, my son and daughter were just as affectionate toward her.
• I had thought it was fate, that perhaps the children felt a natural connection with her.
• Later, I found out that Roger had already introduced Isabella to the children long before.
• It had all been part of the plan.
• I rubbed my sore arms and crouched down to take a closer look at the children I had carried for nine months and brought into this world.
• Aside from their appearance, their personalities were identical to Roger's—carved from the same mold, with not a hint of resemblance to me.
• I had racked my brain, scoured online tutorials, bought professional parenting books, and tried everything to learn how to raise them well.
• In the end, none of it made any difference.
• I had finally come to accept the truth.
• Inferior genes could be inherited.
• Some people were truly born wicked.
• Suppressing the last shred of misplaced maternal affection, I ignored their demands and strode out the door.
• At the entrance, I waved down a taxi.
• “Sir, Cheville Road please.”
• In a quiet corner of Cheville Road sat an inconspicuous lottery retailer.
• That was exactly where I was headed.