Chapter 1

I filled a whole bottle of sleeping pills in my daughter's cup on her full moon day.

My parents, who were busy preparing for the celebration a few hours ago, now have blood and flesh on their limbs and their bodies lying horizontally in the bright red pool.

Yasmine is my wife who has just recovered from childbirth and had her knee removed. Her expression showed that she had suffered extreme pain before.

I proactively called the police, but my emotions were surprisingly calm.

And now I am sitting on the sofa, gazing at the bloodstains on the snow-white walls and the remnants of my once perfect life.

——

As law enforcement arrived, I was removing the timepiece my father had gifted me—a symbol of the luxurious life they'd bestowed upon me. The coppery smell of blood permeated the space, causing the officers to recoil as they entered.

The chief investigator's gaze narrowed as he surveyed the scene and my unsettlingly calm demeanor. His voice trembled with anger as he demanded, "Are you responsible for this? What's your motive?"

"We've already gathered some preliminary information. You're their sole offspring. Neighbors mentioned your parents doted on you, treated you like their entire world. There were no signs of discord. What could drive you to such a heinous act?"

Indeed, I am their only son.

My parents were everything a child could wish for—affectionate, generous, and infinitely supportive. Everyone acquainted with us envied my life.

Even in matters of the heart, I faced no challenges. I wed Yasmine after a brief six-month courtship, and a year post-nuptials, we welcomed our beautiful daughter into the world.

Today marks our infant daughter's monthly milestone celebration.

My mother rose at dawn, determined to ensure everything was flawless. She gave my aunt the day off, insisting on managing everything herself. At the produce market, she selected only the finest ingredients, lugging heavy bags home despite the strain on her back. Even when visibly fatigued, she refused my assistance, dismissing her discomfort with a smile.

After storing the groceries, she allowed herself a brief respite before approaching me. She gently caressed my daughter's head, her expression soft and brimming with adoration.

"Take it easy," she said, her voice gentle. "Mom will prepare all your favorite dishes. Let your dad handle the formula. You haven't been feeling well lately, so don't overexert yourself. When Yasmine returns from the medical center, she can take over infant care."

As she turned to leave, her eyes caught sight of something near my pillow—a small clump of hair. She quietly picked it up and discarded it, her movements deliberate.

"Hair loss is normal," she muttered, more to herself than me. "Don't fret about it. Just take care of yourself, and it'll improve with time."

Her concerned nagging elicited a faint, detached smile from me.

"Mom, I'm grown now," I said lightly. "You don't need to constantly worry about me. Attend to your own matters."

In my younger years, I believed all parents loved their children this way—selflessly, endlessly. It wasn't until I began school and casually shared anecdotes about my family with classmates that I realized how unique my situation was.

Their envious looks spoke volumes. For many, home was a place of harsh discipline, where strictness overshadowed affection.

But my parents? They have always loved me unconditionally. In 25 years, I've never heard them raise their voices at me, never experienced a disagreement that left lasting scars. Our relationship feels almost surreal.

My dad reclined comfortably on the sofa, watching the morning news with a relaxed air. Upon hearing my comment, he chuckled warmly.

"Your mother is like that," he said, his voice tinged with pride. "Even when you're in your golden years, you'll still be her precious son, the pride of our old Aston Family."

Hearing this, my mother, standing nearby, feigned indignation.

"And what about you?" she retorted, crossing her arms. "Who was the one so excited last night that he couldn't sleep, staring at his granddaughter as if he'd never seen an infant before?"

Caught off guard, my dad coughed awkwardly, trying to maintain his composure.

"Why bring that up in front of our son? I just... didn't sleep enough because I'm getting on in years."

My mother rolled her eyes and turned to me with a look of exasperation. We exchanged a conspiratorial glance, both wearing faintly amused expressions.

Paternal love in our family has always been subtle, concealed beneath layers of pride and humor. But their affection for the younger generation? That's never been understated.

As my mother returned to the kitchen, I gazed down at my daughter's serene, sleeping face, lost in contemplation. It was then that my father tiptoed into the room, his movements deliberate and slightly exaggerated, as if executing a covert operation.

He placed a thick red envelope on the table before me with a small smirk.

"Don't tell your mother," he said in a hushed tone. "This is your father's private fund, accumulated over a lifetime. It's a monetary gift for my precious granddaughter's first month celebration!"

My father always claimed his private savings were for himself, but in truth, every cent had been spent on me—be it a sports car, a motorcycle, or even real estate and luxury timepieces.

I accepted the envelope with a quiet smile, but neither of us spoke much after that. He turned his attention to my sleeping daughter, reaching out to tickle her tiny fingers.

Before he could succeed, my mother entered with a tray of freshly washed and sliced fruit.

"What are you doing here, old man?" she said, mock-scolding him. "Don't disturb Perez and the baby! Out you go—the room becomes stuffy when you're in it."

My dad, grumbling under his breath, left reluctantly. My mother, now smiling, turned to me.

"When will Yasmine arrive?" she asked. "I want to time the cooking just right."

"She's finalizing the paperwork at the hospital," I replied. "She should be here soon. Don't rush yourself."

At the mention of Yasmine, my mother's expression softened. She glanced at her hands—bony and worn from years of care—and sighed, as though concealing some unspoken emotion.

"Perez," she said after a pause, her voice tender, "Yasmine is a good woman. Your dad and I can see that. Girls like her who understand and care for their husbands are rare these days. You should be more accommodating to her. Mom and Dad won't always be here to guide you…"

Her words stirred something within me, and I found my eyes welling up. What a good mother—so loving, so patient. I nodded solemnly, pressing my lips tightly together.

Without another word, she pulled a pure gold bracelet from her pocket and carefully slipped it onto my daughter's tiny wrist. She held her granddaughter's hand for a moment, admiring it with an expression of deep satisfaction.

After a while, she seemed to remember I was there. She patted the back of my hand affectionately.

"There weren't many options at the jewelry store," she said apologetically, "but I'll visit another one after I finish my tasks and find something nice for Yasmine. Childbirth is an ordeal. We shouldn't show favoritism."

I smiled and thanked her, though my heart grew colder.

Mom, I'm afraid Yasmine won't be able to wait for your gift.

She didn't notice my change in demeanor, too preoccupied with her chores. With a contented sigh, she turned and walked back to the kitchen.