Chapter 4 I Don’t Want a Child Like You Either
Just a moment ago, Waverly thought that Beckham would force himself on her.
Slowly sitting up, Waverly frowned, her delicate brows knitting together. She wondered why Beckham had refused the divorce. After all, she thought he had wanted to marry Sarah.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Who is it?” Waverly quickly composed herself, putting on a look of innocent confusion as she glanced at the door.
The door opened, revealing a maid standing in the doorway. “Madam, are you hungry?”
Waverly felt slightly embarrassed and nodded. “I am.”
The maid smiled. “Dinner is ready. Please come down and have some.”
“Alright. Thank you.”
Waverly silently applauded her own acting skills. She decided to keep it up until she got the divorce papers in her hands.
When she arrived in the dining room, she immediately noticed a small figure sitting stiffly on a chair. Small hands rested on his lap, and his young, delicate face showed no trace of emotion.
Hearing her approach, the boy turned his head slightly, lowering his gaze as he said flatly, “Mother.”
A sharp pang pierced Waverly’s heart.
Arthur had been sent to the Lynch family estate for training when he was just three years old. The rigid, military-style upbringing had robbed him of his childhood.
At first, he would cling to her whenever he came home. But over time, he began to distance himself.
When she tried to hug him, he would push her away with a look of resistance.
Eventually, he stopped allowing her to interfere in his life. Once, she organized his books for him, and he sulked for a week without speaking to her. His attitude toward her increasingly mirrored Beckham’s indifference.
Suppressing the ache in her chest, Waverly asked curiously, “Are you my son?”
Arthur, already aware of her memory loss, showed little reaction. His childish face remained indifferent as he answered, “Yes.”
Waverly nodded thoughtfully. “If that’s the case, why didn’t you care about me when I was in the hospital? It’s as if I’m not even the one who gave birth to you.”
Arthur was still young and less adept at concealing his emotions than Beckham. His small face froze for a moment when he heard her remarks.
Then, frowning, he said, “You gave birth to me—that’s a fact. Don’t say things like that.”
As if displeased with Waverly’s tone, he began to lecture her. “Please don’t speak that way again. People might think you’ve lost your mind from staying at home too long.”
Waverly tightly clenched her hands under the table, struggling to control her emotions.
Arthur’s gaze was filled with undisguised disdain.
Taking a deep breath, Waverly furrowed her brows and said, “You’re a rude child. Is that how you talk to your mother? No matter what, I’m still your mom.”
In the past, she would have indulged Beckham and Arthur, always compromising. But now, she was done tolerating it.
The father’s poor behavior had clearly influenced the son. If she didn’t plan to stay, she no longer needed to cater to their bad tempers.
Arthur was stunned. “You…”
Waverly picked up her utensils and began eating. Without looking at him, she said, “That’s enough. Don’t talk to me. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t want a child like you either.”
Arthur’s delicate face froze completely. His wide, innocent eyes filled with disbelief as he stared at her.
What did she just say?
The woman who, in his mind, had always been a pushover—devoted to her husband and son, with no individuality—was saying such things. This wasn’t the mother he remembered.
She used to throw herself at him every time she saw him, hugging and kissing him, fussing over his every need. She would even ask how he was doing at the family estate.
He was at the estate where his grandparents lived. How could he possibly not be doing well there?
To him, her concern had always been annoying, unnecessary, and even disrespectful to his grandparents.
