My Son Called Me an Old Hag, So I Sent Him to an Orphanage
On the yacht, my six-year-old son, Zane Vaughn, gave me a hard shove.
“Mom, just get off! Auntie Sterling said that as long as you're gone, she can be my new mom!”
The yacht rocked violently, and I stumbled unprepared toward the edge of the deck, which had no guardrails.
“Zane!” I screamed in terror, half of my body already hanging over the side.
I clung desperately to the railing at the edge, turning my head to look at my husband in the cockpit: “Theon Vaughn! Help me! I'm scared!”
Theon Vaughn held Mona Sterling and our son, who were beside him, tightly in his arms.
“Lucia Lynch, stop pretending. Weren't you a city-level swimming champion? Just swim back to shore yourself. Mona is seasick and can't take it anymore, I have to take her back immediately!”
My eyes widened in disbelief: “I have severe thalassophobia, have you forgotten?!”
“You're just jealous of Mona, to the point of making up such a lie? Let go!”
Theon Vaughn slammed down on the accelerator.
The yacht let out a roar, and the immense inertia threw me completely off.
Before I plunged into the bone-chillingly cold deep sea, I heard my son's cheers: “Awesome! The old hag is finally dead! Auntie Sterling is my mom now!”
In suffocating despair, I watched the yacht speed away and disappear.
“We got her! Quick! She's still breathing!”
“This woman is really lucky to be alive. This area of the sea has undercurrents!”
I suddenly spat out a large mouthful of seawater and began to cough violently.
My vision gradually cleared, and I saw several uniformed Coast Guard officers looking at me anxiously.
“Ma'am, how are you feeling? Can you hear me?”
I trembled all over.