My Mothre’s Guilt journal Became MY Cancellation Notice Chapter 04

The study door was half open.

My mother sat at the desk.

The accountability journal lay open in front of her, with a fountain pen beside it.

The lowest drawer was open, and it was obvious that a small stack of papers was missing.

She did not look surprised when she saw me come in.

She had already written half a page.

I walked closer and saw the words on the paper.

[Today, my older daughter, Ivy Sullivan, refused to show consideration for her sister’s situation and harbored resentment. That is my failure as a mother.]

I stared at those words, and it felt as if my chest had been plunged into ice water.

“Mom, do you know who took those pictures and sent them out?”

She did not lift her head.

“We’re still looking into it.”

“There’s no need.” My voice was very low. “It was Celeste.”

The tip of her pen paused.

It lasted only a second.

Then, just as quickly, she continued writing.

“You have no proof. Don’t make baseless accusations.”

I looked at her hand.

That hand had combed Celeste’s hair and wiped away her tears.

That same hand had also written down everything I was supposedly guilty of at this desk, stroke by stroke, for more than ten years.

“Then why won’t you ask her?”

My mother finally looked up.

“Ivy, the Graham family has already rejected you. If this gets dragged into the open, Celeste’s reputation will be ruined too, and so will the Sullivan family’s name.”

I understood.

It was not that she did not know.

It was that she could not ask.

Celeste still had a chance to marry well.

The Sullivan family could still cover this up.

Only I had already been rejected.

In my mother’s eyes, my ruined reputation was like shattered glass. It only needed to be swept into a corner and forgotten.

After she finished writing, my mother prepared to close the journal.

I reached out and pressed my hand down on the page.

Her expression changed sharply.

“Let go.”

My hand did not move.

“Mom, why does every page about what went wrong have to include my name?”

Her lips pressed into a hard line.

“Because you’re the older one.”

“Does being older mean I’m always the one at fault?”

She frowned. “Celeste has been frail since she was little. You should have given in to her more. That was only right.”

I looked at the newly written page.

After the Graham family broke off the engagement, the first thing my mother did was not find out who had hurt me.

It was to write my name into the accountability journal again.

I picked up the page.

My mother’s voice suddenly rose. “Ivy Sullivan, that was for my own eyes!”

I turned to look at her.

“Then why did it end up in the Graham family’s hands?”

The study fell silent.

My mother’s face turned pale little by little.

She did not answer.

Footsteps suddenly came from outside.

My father stood in the doorway, his face dark. “Enough. The Graham family ended the engagement today, and this house is already in chaos. Do you still have to stand here and corner your mother?”

The page was still clenched in my hand.

My mother sat there with red-rimmed eyes.

She looked as if I had broken her heart.

In the past, whenever she showed that expression, I would have apologized.

This time, I only slowly placed the page back on the desk.

“I’ll find out the truth.”

My father scoffed. “And what will that change? The Graham family has already rejected you. Do you want everyone to know the two Sullivan daughters fought over one engagement?”

I looked at him.

“Then let them know why I was rejected.”

My father raised his hand to hit me.

My mother stopped him.

“That’s enough.”

The slap never landed.

I left the study.

The night wind blew in from the far end of the hallway. It was not cold, but my jaw was clenched tight.

Tessa had been waiting outside the whole time.

When she saw me come out, she hurried over to support me.

“Ivy, what do we do?”

I looked back at the study.

The light inside was still on.

My mother had probably picked up her pen again.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

“Go find Mrs. Carter.”

Mrs. Carter had been a longtime member of my grandmother’s household staff.

She was elderly now, and she usually only looked after the things my grandmother had left behind. She rarely spoke.

After I told her about the broken engagement and the accountability journal, she stayed silent for a long time.

At last, she took an old document box from the bottom of a cabinet.

Inside the box were several yellowed sheets of paper.

On top was an old medical record.

Celeste’s diagnosis and medication records from the night she spiked a high fever when I was six were all there.

It was not because she had been frightened.

Her nanny had given her the wrong dose of prescribed sedative drops.

My fingers went stiff at once.