Ten Years a Stand-in Wife—Old Money Only Recognizes Me Chapter 20

Ten Years a Stand-in Wife—Old Money Only Recognizes Me Chapter 20

Later, Valerie settled into a rented apartment in Sunrise District.

Her translation work went well. Her French was genuinely strong-three years in Paris hadn’t been

wasted.

She didn’t come looking for me again.

And she never mentioned Ethan again either.

Half a year later, Ethan asked to see her himself.

Not to call her “Mom.”

Just out of curiosity.

“Mom, I just want to see what she looks like. Not in photos. In real life.”

“Okay. I’ll go with you.”

“No need. I’ll go myself.”

I looked at him. Eleven and a half, growing fast again, the sleeves of his school uniform barely

reaching his wrists.

“You sure?”

“Mom, I’m eleven, not one.”

“You asked me to open your water bottle last month.”

“That’s because it was sealed too tight!”

“…Fine. Go ahead.”

He went to see her.

When he came back, he was quiet the whole way.

And when he changed his shoes at the door, he suddenly said, “Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s kind of pitiful.”

…

I crouched down and tied his shoelaces-he never did it properly; they always came undone after a

few steps.

“Hmm.”

“But being pitiful isn’t wrong. Leaving was.’

My hands paused slightly.

I looked up at him.

His expression was unusually calm for a child his age.

“Dad said that,” he added. “‘A pitiful person isn’t necessarily right. Wrong is still wrong. But someone who’s wrong can still start over-as long as she chooses to start on her own.””

Adrian.

Just how much had that man been saying to our son without me knowing?

I finished tying his shoes and stood up.

“What do you think?”

“I think…” Ethan tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “I can go see her sometimes. But my mom

is you.”

“That won’t change.”

He said it, then immediately ran into the kitchen to raid the fridge.

“Mom! Do we have ice cream?”

“No. Eat less cold food.”

He pouted.

The fridge door slammed shut.

I stood in the hallway, listening to the noise coming from the kitchen.

And I smiled.

The kind I didn’t even notice forming.

On the shoe cabinet by the entrance was a small round mirror.

I glanced at it.

The woman inside was thirty-two. Calm eyes, relaxed brows, a faint smile at the corners of her mouth. A simple beige sweater, hair tied loosely in a ponytail.

Not a substitute for anyone.

Not anyone’s shadow.

Just herself.

Sloane Shaw.

Beside the mirror was a drawing Ethan had made with a marker: a stick-figure family of three, arranged from shortest to tallest. The shortest had two loops on its head for a ponytail. The middle one was holding a ball. The tallest wore glasses.

Under it, in crooked handwriting: [My Family-By Ethan Shaw]

Next to it, Adrian had added in pencil: [Good composition. But proportions need work. Dad’s legs are not that short.]

And beside that, Ethan had angrily replied in red ink: [THEY ARE THAT SHORT!!!]

I reached out and touched the drawing.

The paper was rough, the marker slightly raised under my fingertips.

When my finger brushed over the words “My Family,” I paused.

My family.

Those two words were worth ten years.

Every single day of them.