Mary Scott's hand was rubbed raw by the tough calluses on David Locke's fingers. She fought back the surge of bitterness in her chest, forcing herself to say, "I'm fine."
"Fine? Then why are you crying? Are you trying to make it look like we, two old folks, are bullying you?" Mrs. Twain grumbled unhappily.
Mr. Locke looked at his wife and pleaded, "Say one less thing, will you? Look, you've upset our son."
"Hmph." Mrs. Locke snorted in disapproval, casually pulling out a few tissues and handing them to Mary. "Here."
Before David could act, Mary hurriedly reached out to take them. "Thank you, Auntie," she murmured.
"Didn't you just call me Mom earlier? Now I'm Auntie again?" Mrs. Locke huffed, clearly displeased.
Mary wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and even dabbed at the damp spot on David's hand that her tears had soaked. Hearing Mrs. Locke's comment, she hesitated before awkwardly stammering, "Mom…"
The originally irate Mrs. Locke was left speechless. "…"
