My Daughter's Tears Don't Lie
The cashmere scarf was soft to the touch, yet it could not keep out the cold that seeped from my skin deep into my bones.
The suitcase wheels clicked over the gleaming tiles, producing a steady, rhythmic sound.
The sound rang out distinctly in the hall as the crowd slowly thinned, each echo seeming to tap against my heart, reminding me that I had truly returned to this city—both familiar and estranged.
Lifting my gaze, the black sedan parked by the roadside struck me with painful familiarity.
Its body gleamed with a cold metallic luster—the very same car he had used to take me to the airport three years ago when I left.
The window slowly slid down, revealing Mark Collins's sharply chiseled face.
His brows and eyes had scarcely changed; only his jawline was more defined, and the warmth that once lingered in his gaze had all but vanished.
He strode towards me, the hem of his dark gray overcoat swaying gently with each step.
The fabric was of fine wool, catching a subtle sheen beneath the lights; yet this refinement only served to make him appear more distant.
As he took the suitcase, his fingertips brushed accidentally against the back of my hand; the touch was unnervingly cold, like a layer of unmelting ice, and I immediately retracted my hand.
"How was the journey?" His voice drifted through the cool air, much the same as three years before, yet the warmth once concealed within it had vanished, replaced by a formal politeness, as though addressing a business client.
"Quite smooth, though the airplane was a little stuffy." I nodded, my gaze passing over his shoulder to settle on the woman standing beside the car.
It felt as though my heart had been lightly stung by something, sending a subtle sting through me.
The woman wore an off-white professional suit, perfectly pressed with not a wrinkle in sight, every seam crisp and exact.
Her long hair was styled into an exquisite chignon, revealing a slender neck adorned with a delicate silver necklace that highlighted her poised and elegant aura.
She clutched a thick folder in her hand, her knuckles pale from gripping it tightly, and in the look she gave me lay a faint, almost imperceptible hostility, like a needle tipped with cold light, silently piercing me.
Before I could speak, she had already stepped forward, arms outstretched to embrace me.
The scent of her perfume enveloped me—a sickly sweet floral and fruity fragrance that, though alluring, felt stifling.
"At last, you have returned—Mr. Collins has been constantly mentioning you lately." Her voice was sickeningly sweet, as if cloaked in a thick syrup, yet her arm suddenly tightened, her sharp nails digging into my waist with cruel force.
The blow was swift and merciless, making me draw a sharp breath.
The sudden sting made me instinctively push her away.
"What are you doing?" Her voice betrayed a surge of anger, her breath quickening as her chest heaved slightly with frustration.
She immediately took a half step backwards, her eyes reddening visibly, as if weighed down by a great injustice.
Those reddened eyes, set against her pale face, made her seem particularly pitiful.
Turning to look at Mark Collins, her voice trembled with tears: "Mr. Collins, I only wished to properly welcome Madam; have I done something wrong to displease her?"
Mark Collins furrowed his brow, his brows knitting tightly into a deep shape.
Instinctively, he shielded her behind himself, erecting an invisible barrier that shut me out.
Turning to speak to me, his tone already carried a clear reproach: "What's wrong with you? Lisa was only being warm, trying to get closer to you. Is such a big reaction really necessary?"
"She pinched me!" I abruptly lifted the hem of my shirt; the skin on my side was already reddened, faint imprints of fingernails visible on the pale flesh, stark and unmistakable.
I pointed to the marks, my voice heavy with both grievance and anger.
"It's nothing serious." He glanced at them, his tone growing more impatient, his brow furrowing more deeply, as if looking at a child making an unreasonable fuss: "You're just too sensitive, making a fuss over something so minor."
Lisa did not mean it; do not dwell on such a trivial matter, lest we become a laughingstock.
I followed his gaze to Lisa and saw her lower her head, a sly, triumphant smile playing at the corners of her lips, like a child caught stealing candy. Though hidden beneath her falling hair, I saw it clearly.
Watching Mark Collins shield her like that, my chest felt constricted by an invisible weight, so stifling that even breathing became a struggle.
It seemed that over these three years, much had changed. Even the look he cast at me no longer held its former warmth, but was now cold and distant.
The restaurant was intimately adorned for the third anniversary.
The warm yellow candlelight flickered, casting its glow upon Mark Collins's face, yet it failed to penetrate the cold indifference in his eyes.
An array of exquisite dishes covered the table; the creamy mushroom soup gave off a rich aroma, and the steak was seared to a crisp outside while tender within. Yet, I found little appetite, merely watching the red wine swirl in my glass as I silently stirred it with my spoon.
Halfway through the meal, a sudden uproar echoed from the neighboring table.
A drunken man staggered forward, his breath heavy with the scent of alcohol; the glass in his hand swayed wildly, dark red wine spilling in droplets, nearly dousing me.
I instinctively drew back, my heart pounding instantly.
Mark Collins reacted swiftly, almost instantly grasping my wrist and pulling me aside.
His palm was cool, yet his grip steady, bringing me a fleeting sense of calm.
Security soon arrived and led the drunkard away; the man kept muttering incoherently, yet his eyes flickered toward me now and then, the malice in them too deliberate to be mere drunken confusion.
After sitting down, my hand holding the glass still trembled slightly.
The cold glass pressed against my palm, yet it could not steady the frantic beating of my heart.
"Don't you find it strange?" On the way home, I couldn't help but break the silence, glancing at Mark Collins, who gripped the steering wheel. "That drunk seemed to come at me deliberately. The look in his eyes was off—nothing like a mere drunken brawl."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles whitening from the strain, though his voice came out stiff: "He's just a drunken lunatic, confused and reckless. You're reading too much into it."
The car glided steadily through the night, yet the atmosphere inside the cabin grew rigid.
"Could it be Lisa?" I spoke the suspicion that had long churned within me, my voice low, fearing he might deny it, yet unable to suppress my need for an answer. "She's always been... somewhat different with you, always deliberately performing in your presence. Could she have deliberately brought someone to frighten me?"
"Don't talk nonsense!" Mark Collins suddenly cut me off, his voice rising several tones. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he jerked it sharply, and the car nearly swerved out of its lane.
I instinctively gripped the seatbelt tighter, my heart skipping another beat.
"Lisa is my secretary, always diligent. She has handled many tasks for me. You shouldn't constantly judge others with such dark suspicions. Is it really worth it?" His tone brimmed with impatience, laced with a trace of defensiveness.
I remained silent; the only sound in the car was the engine's rumble.
Doubts in my heart sprouted like unruly vines, twisting and tightening until I could scarcely breathe.
I watched the streetlights blur past the window, a heavy unease gnawing at me, convinced that something bad was about to happen.
It was not until that afternoon, when I went to the kindergarten to pick up Daisy, that my unease finally materialized.
Daisy saw me and immediately threw herself into my arms, but I noticed the rolled-up sleeve revealing a dark bruise on her arm.
The bruise was a deep purple, as if someone had gripped her with force; my heart clenched instantly, my voice trembling.
"Daisy, how did this happen?" I crouched down, gently touching her arm, my movements as delicate as if I feared breaking her.
She immediately recoiled in pain, her eyes reddening at once as large tears welled and trembled in her gaze.
"It was Ms. Lisa..." Daisy bit her lip, tears finally spilling over, her voice barely more than a whisper, trembling with fear. "She came to our house yesterday. I accidentally knocked over a glass and spilled water on her clothes. She pinched me and said not to tell Dad or Mom, or she'd pinch me again."
I trembled with fury, my fingertips icy cold.
A surge of anger welled up from deep within me, burning until my head swam.
When Mark Collins came home that evening, I seized him abruptly and held Daisy's arm up before his eyes, my voice trembling with barely restrained fury: "Look at this! Lisa twisted Daisy's arm like this, and you still protect her! Do you have any heart? Daisy is your daughter!"
Mark's eyes flickered, yet he averted my gaze. He reached out to touch Daisy's head, his tone so perfunctory it sent a chill through me: "Perhaps Daisy bumped into something by accident. Children are mischievous; bumps and bruises are normal."
Lisa likes children so much; how could she possibly have laid a hand on her? Don't wrong an innocent person.
"She admitted it herself!" I nearly shouted, my chest heaving violently, tears welling in my eyes. "Daisy wouldn't lie. She's so young—how could she invent such nonsense? Why won't you believe us?"
"Can a child's words be trusted?" His words were like a sharp knife, piercing deeply into my heart, freezing me in place. "Perhaps you coached her to say that just to cause trouble for Lisa! Can you stop making such unreasonable accusations all the time?"
I stared at him in stunned silence, my throat constricted as if blocked, unable to utter a single word.
It turned out that in his heart, the words of my daughter and me mattered less than the innocence of an outsider.
Three years of affection became so cheap and absurd in that moment.
The next day, I deliberately left work early to return home, hoping to get clear answers from Lisa.
I could not allow Daisy to suffer unjustly, nor could I let that woman continue to wreak havoc in our home.
Just as I reached the doorstep, before I could even take out my keys, I heard Daisy's stifled sobs from the living room—broken and trembling with fear—mixed with Lisa's fierce scolding.
"Don't cry! If you cry again, I'll pinch you! You dared to be disobedient, you dared to tattle on your mother! Let's see if you still dare next time!" Lisa's voice was sharp and biting, completely devoid of the usual softness she showed before Mark Collins, like a beast baring its fangs.
I threw open the door and rushed inside, seeing Lisa holding Daisy's wrist tightly, her nails deeply embedded in the flesh. Daisy's little face was flushed crimson, tears streaming down like broken strings of pearls, and several red marks had already formed on her wrist.
My heart was cruelly wrenched; the pain was sharp and fierce.
"Let her go!" I cried, rushing forward and yanking Lisa away with such force that she staggered back several steps.
I held Daisy tightly in my arms, gently patting her back to soothe her. Then, turning to glare at Lisa, my eyes burning with anger, I said, "How dare you lay a hand on Daisy? What exactly do you think you're doing? Do you believe that because Mark Collins protects you, you may act with impunity?"
The moment Lisa saw me, her face instantly drained of color; her eyes grew wild and frantic, like a thief caught red-handed.
But she quickly forced herself to appear calm, offering a stiff smile: "Madam, why have you returned? I was just playing roughly with Daisy; I didn't expect her to be so sensitive and to burst into tears. Children are simply delicate."
"Playing roughly?" I sneered coldly, revealing the bruises on Daisy's arm—those purplish marks stood out starkly against her pale skin, as if bearing witness to her cruelty. "Does playing roughly leave her bruised like this? Daisy told me everything yesterday at kindergarten. Are you still going to deny it? Do you think I would believe your lies?"
Her tears began to fall again, like beads slipping from a broken string, fragile and pitiful.
Flustered, she hurriedly took out her cell phone to call Mark Collins, her voice urgent and aggrieved: "Mr. Collins, please come back quickly. Madam has misunderstood me. She is angry with me without cause, even accusing me of bullying Daisy. I truly haven't..."
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