From the Homemaker to the CEO
I sat on the sofa, my fingertips gently tapping along with the melody, my eyes fixed on the back of my daughter, Reagan Green.
She wore a pink princess dress, her small body held straight and upright, her hands diligently dancing across the black and white piano keys, each note filled with the tender effort of childhood.
At that moment, the mobile phone resting on the coffee table suddenly lit up.
The glow from the screen was especially noticeable in the dim living room, interrupting Reagan's performance.
She stopped playing and turned back to me with a puzzled look: "Mom, is that a message from Dad?"
My heart skipped a beat as I reached out to take the mobile phone.
The screen showed a multimedia message from an unknown number, without any accompanying text.
I took a deep breath, my fingertips trembling slightly as I clicked to open it.
In the next moment, the glaring image instantly filled the entire screen.
Beneath the azure sky stretched a white sandy beach and an endless sea.
Mario Green wore a white short-sleeved shirt, his skin sun-darkened; his arm was intimately draped over a woman's shoulder. They smiled brightly at the camera, but that smile cut through me like a sharp blade.
That woman was none other than Mario Green's subordinate, Mindy Taylor.
She wore a red slip dress, her makeup flawless, leaning against Mario Green so intimately it was almost painfully conspicuous.
Before I could even collect my thoughts, a second message appeared, again from that unknown number. This time it was a text, the sender identified as Mindy Taylor: "Director Shaw, look, Mario and I are enjoying ourselves so much in M Country. The sunshine and beaches here are far more comfortable than at home."
My fingers tightened slightly around the mobile phone, my knuckles turning white.
Reagan was still waiting for my reply; I couldn't let her notice anything amiss.
I slowly lifted my head, suppressing the turmoil within, stroked her hair, and forced a gentle smile: "It's not Daddy, it's just a spam message." Don't get distracted, keep practicing the piano. When you're done, Mom will make your favorite strawberry cake.
Reagan's eyes lit up, immediately casting aside the earlier distraction. She turned around excitedly, placing her small hands back on the piano keys: "Really? When Mom says something, she means it!"
"Of course I do." I smiled and nodded, but my gaze involuntarily drifted toward the mobile phone screen.
The scene just now felt like a thorn stabbing into my heart, causing a dull ache.
I quietly rose, walked out to the balcony, set my mobile phone to silent, and placed it in the drawer.
The evening breeze, carrying the chill of dusk, brushed against my face, slightly easing the restlessness in my heart.
Leaning against the balcony railing, I gazed at the distant, slowly setting sun, my heart awash with conflicting emotions.
Mario Green had been away on a business trip for nearly a week. Before leaving, he said the company had an important project to discuss in M Country, and he had specially promised Reagan he would bring her back a shell bracelet.
Now it seems that the so-called "project" was merely an excuse for him and Mindy Taylor to take a vacation.
Before dinner, the mobile phone rang again.
This time, it was a voice message, still from Mindy Taylor.
I hesitated for a moment but then decided to open it.
From the receiver came Mindy Taylor's coquettish voice, tinged with deliberate boastfulness: "Mario, look at the sunset over there—it's so beautiful, a brilliant orange-red, like a painting.""It's far more picturesque than the meals Director Shaw cooks at home. His dishes always taste the same, without a trace of creativity."
At the end of the voice message, Mario Green's low laughter followed—a sound like a dull knife slowly cutting into my heart.
I held the mobile phone, my fingers cold, and without hesitation pressed the delete key.
At that moment, housekeeper Bella came over carrying a fruit platter. Seeing me standing on the balcony, she asked with concern, "Madam, it's very windy outside. Why don't you wear something warmer? Dinner is ready, and about the gentleman... should I save some for him?"
I turned around, trying to keep my tone calm: "No need. He hasn't been coming home lately. Leaving food would be a waste."
Bella looked at me, hesitated, then finally sighed softly and nodded, "I understand now, Madam. Please come in quickly — don't catch a cold. Reagan is still waiting for you to eat."
I softly responded, "Hmm," and followed Bella into the living room.
Reagan had finished practicing the piano and was sitting by the dining table, looking longingly at the dishes. When she saw me come in, she immediately raised her little hand. "Mom, I practiced especially hard today. Can I have an extra piece of strawberry cake?"
Looking at my daughter's innocent face, the shadow over my heart lifted slightly.
I walked over, sat down beside her, and placed a piece of her favorite Sweet and Sour Pork Ribs into her bowl: "Of course you can, but you have to eat well first, then you can have cake."
Reagan happily agreed, picked up her spoon, and began eating eagerly.
I watched her devour the food, a faint smile tugging at my lips, yet the unease in my heart would not fade.
By nine o'clock in the evening, Reagan was already fast asleep.
I gently pushed open her door and looked at her steady breath and serene sleeping face, my heart filled with tenderness.
I helped her straighten the corner of the quilt before turning away and heading toward the study.
On the bookshelf in the study, there was an old photo album.
I took it down, sat in a chair, and slowly opened it.
The yellowed photos flicked past page by page, mostly pictures from Reagan's childhood, along with some early wedding photos of Mario and me.
Near the last few pages, a photo of Mario from his university days caught my eye.
In the photo, he wore a faded blue shirt with a slightly wrinkled collar, clutching a scholarship certificate tightly, standing in front of the school's academic building. His eyes were filled with stubbornness and defiance, marked by an undeniable innocence.
Seeing this photo, my thoughts instantly drifted back to more than ten years ago.
At that time, I was still the young lady of the Shaw Group. My father held an annual Funding Ceremony at the school to help impoverished students, and I, as the donor representative, was responsible for distributing scholarships to those in need.
The weather that day was beautiful, with bright sunshine.
I wore a white dress and stood on the stage, holding a thick stack of envelopes containing scholarship funds for each poor student.
When it was Mario Green's turn, he lowered his head and briskly walked onto the stage. Taking the envelope with both hands, he spoke in a soft yet clear voice, 'Thank you, Ms. Shaw. I will surely repay this in the future.'
I paused for a moment, then shook my head with a smile: "You don't have to repay this money. It is my hope that you will study hard and become a person of value to society. With your effort, you will surely succeed."
He lifted his head, surprise mixed with a trace of embarrassment in his eyes. Soon, he looked down again, whispered, "I will," and hurriedly stepped down from the stage.
From then on, Mario Green began sending me emails frequently.
Sometimes, he would share his academic results, telling me he had ranked first in his exams again; Sometimes, he told me about his part-time job experiences, saying he worked in a restaurant. Although it was exhausting, he was happy to earn money for tuition and living expenses.
Every time, I would reply to his emails thoughtfully, encouraging him to keep trying and telling him he could share any difficulties with me.
Gradually, our communication grew more frequent, and the content of the emails slowly expanded from studies and work to the small details of everyday life.
On the day Mario Green graduated, he suddenly called me, saying he had something to give me.
I thought he simply wanted to express his gratitude, so I agreed to meet him at a cafe near the school.
That day, he wore a crisp white shirt and held a bouquet of sunflowers, standing by the cafe door waiting for me.
When he saw me, he appeared nervous, his hands trembling slightly, yet he still gathered the courage and looked at me with determined eyes: "Ms. Shaw, I have liked you for a long time. Since the first time I saw you at the Funding Ceremony, I have liked you. Could you give me a chance to let me take care of you?"
I was caught off guard by his sudden confession, frozen in place.
Looking into his sincere but nervous eyes, and seeing the bouquet of brilliantly blooming sunflowers in his hands, I found myself nodding unexpectedly.
After we got together, Mario Green treated me very well.
He remembered all my preferences, prepared meals in advance to bring to the company whenever I worked late, and stayed by my side to care for me attentively when I was ill.
On our wedding day, he wore a crisp suit, held my hand, and his eyes shone with sincerity and love: "Mia, thank you for agreeing to marry me.""I know I'm not good enough yet, but I promise to work hard and give my all to ensure that you and our future children live well. I won't let you suffer any wrongs."
At that moment, his eyes sparkled with a radiant glow. I believed I had found someone to entrust my life to and that we would walk happily together ever after.
But now, in hindsight, those once beautiful memories seem only like cruel irony.
I gently closed the photo album and returned it to the bookshelf.
The study was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall; each tick echoed in my heart, sharpening my clarity.
Reagan had never been in good health since her birth.
She was always catching colds and running fevers, each illness lasting several days.
Mario and I were deeply worried, but especially me—I devoted nearly all my energy to caring for Reagan.
I recall that when Reagan was three, one late night she suddenly spiked a high fever, her little face flushed crimson, breathing rapidly.
I was frantic and ran to the hospital holding her.
On the way, I called Mario Green, hoping he could come to help.
After he answered, Mario's voice sounded weary: "Mia, what's wrong? Calling so late."
"Mario, Reagan has a high fever. I'm taking her to the hospital now. Could you come? I'm a bit overwhelmed on my own." I ran while speaking anxiously, my voice trembling with worry.
After a few seconds of silence, Mario's resigned voice came through: "Mia, I'm sorry, the company has an emergency meeting right now. I can't leave." Hold on a little longer; I'll come over as soon as the meeting ends. Don't worry—take Reagan to see the doctor first.
"But Reagan's fever has hit 39 degrees, and she's been crying nonstop. I..." I wanted to say more, but a reminder sounded from the other end: "The meeting is about to start."
Mario Green hurriedly said, "I have to hang up now; contact me if anything comes up," and then ended the call.
Listening to the busy tone, I held my burning-hot daughter close, a sharp ache piercing my heart as tears began to fall uncontrollably.
At the hospital, I held Reagan as we queued to register, saw the doctor, collected the medicine, and stayed with her during the IV drip.
Throughout the entire process, I was the only one running around.
Reagan was feverish and drowsy, yet she kept holding my hand, softly calling "Daddy."
I could only hold back my tears and gently soothe her: "Daddy is busy with work. Once he's finished, he will come to see Reagan."
But even after Reagan's IV was finished and dawn was breaking, Mario Green still hadn't come.
I called him repeatedly, but there was no answer.
Since then, Mario seemed to become increasingly busy.
With more and more company matters, he came home later and later, sometimes not coming home for days at a time.
Every time I call him, he says he is busy with a project or attending social engagements, his tone always laced with impatience.
Whenever Reagan sees other children playing with their fathers, she looks at me longingly and asks, "Mom, when will Dad come home? I really want Dad to play on the slide with me."
Looking into my daughter's yearning eyes, my heart aches as if pierced by needles.
I know that Reagan needs her father's presence, and I, too, need a husband who can share the responsibilities of the family with me.
That night, I waited until nearly midnight before Mario Green came home, drunk and reeling.
He reeked of strong alcohol and an unfamiliar perfume, collapsing onto the sofa as soon as he stepped inside.
I walked over, sat opposite him, took a deep breath, and voiced the decision I had been mulling over for a long time: "Mario, I want to resign and stay at home to take care of Reagan."
Mario froze for a moment, as if sobering up slightly from his intoxication.
He raised his head, looked at me, then his face lit up with delight: "Mia, you really mean it? That's wonderful! The Company has been short-staffed recently, and I was planning to have you help me more. If you want to stay home with the child, then I'll work harder myself—it doesn't matter."
I looked at him, a chill settling in my heart.
He seemed to have completely forgotten that the Shaw Group was founded by my father, and I was originally the company's Marketing Director, holding many important resources and projects.
When he first joined the company, it was I who recommended him to the core department, helping him steadily establish his footing.
Now he says, 'Let me support him more,' as if the company had been founded by him alone.
I said nothing in response; I only gave a slight nod.
I knew that saying these things now was pointless.
For Reagan, I was willing to temporarily put my career on hold and step back into family life.
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