The Fortune Teller Said I Was Bad Luck, I Brought Them Worse Chapter 14

The Fortune Teller Said I Was Bad Luck, I Brought Them Worse Chapter 14

Three years later.

I opened a small flower shop in the new district, called “Joyful.” Cozy, warm.

Every morning, I opened the door, moved pots of flowers outside, watered them, pruned them, and welcomed customers.

Life was quiet, fulfilling.

I rarely contacted my family, only during holidays or festivals.

Mom still cried occasionally, asking when I might come back. I told her I was fine.

Gavin was repaying me, month by month. Friends said he had changed jobs, worked tirelessly, often staying late at night.

Lily moved on quickly, got married, and is now pregnant. He hasn’t found another girlfriend.

Sometimes, he would pass by my shop, watch for a while from across the street, and leave. We never spoke.

This was good.

One quiet weekend afternoon, the shop empty, I sat behind the counter reading a book on flower cultivation. A wind chime rang, the door opened.

“Welcome.” I looked up, frozen.

It was Mom.

She had aged. Half her hair was white, her back slightly hunched. She held a thermos, standing awkwardly at the door.

“Isabella…” she said softly.

I put down the book and stood. “Mom… what are you doing here?”

“I… I made you some soup. Your favorite soup.” She placed the thermos on the counter, wiped her hands on her apron. “Drink it while it’s hot.”

Something inside me softened.

“Sit.” I pulled a chair for her.

She looked around the shop. “This place is beautiful. Did you grow all these flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Really… really beautiful…” Her eyes reddened.

We sat in silence for a while. The scent of lilies and jasmine filled the air.

“Your dad… he was hospitalized last month.” she said suddenly.

I froze. “What happened?”

“High blood pressure, an old problem. Nothing serious, only three days. He didn’t want me to tell you, worried you’d worry.”

“And now?”

“Better. Taking medicine on time is enough.” She hesitated. “Isabella, are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She nodded, uncertain what else to say.

Silence again.

“Mom.” I spoke. “Remember when I was little, you taught me poetry?”

Her tears fell immediately. “I remember… how could I forget… You were so clever, you learned it after one time…”

“Then Gavin came, and you never taught me again,” I said. “You had to care for him, cook, work. I learned to cook for myself, wash my own clothes, go to school on my own.”

“Isabella, Mom’s sorry…”

“It’s past,” I shook my head. “Mom, I’ll take the soup. Thank you.”

She stood, came closer, hand reaching toward my face, then withdrew. “You’ve lost weight.”

“No, gained three pounds.”

“Eat well. Don’t survive on takeout, it’s unhealthy.”

“I know.”

“I… I’ll go now.” She turned slowly, moving toward the door.

At the doorway, she stopped, glanced back at me. “Isabella… do you hate me?”

I looked at her eyes, the ones once beautiful, now lined and bloodshot.

“No,” I said. “But I don’t love you anymore.”

Her body shivered slightly, then she nodded and pushed the door open.

I watched her hunched figure disappear around the corner.

Then I opened the thermos. The soup was still hot, fragrant. The taste from my childhood.

I took a spoonful.

Salty… like the tears I’ve shed.