The Mouthwash Cup

The day Kian Richmond was welcomed back by his birth family, my mother took a Greyhound overnight to see him.

When Mrs. Richmond offered to thank us for raising him, Mom, terrified of the gesture, only took a single crystal glass from a side table.

As we were leaving, I overheard Mrs. Richmond speaking to her housekeeper.

“It makes my blood boil, thinking of my son going hungry, living in some leaky tenement.

“People like that belong in the gutter, picking through trash.”

With my eyes burning, I found Kian to return the glass, but he just shrugged, a picture of indifference.

“Keep it,” he said, his voice cool. “Even if it’s just one of my mother’s old mouthwash cups, it’s worth more than you’ve ever seen.”

I said nothing. When we got home, I packed a bag, and we disappeared.

Years later, I heard a story. That the heir to the Richmond fortune spent five years searching for a poor family, holding a single crystal glass like a prayer.


1

It had been three months since Kian had returned to the Richmond family, and he hadn’t contacted us once. Mom, sick with worry, dragged me onto a bus that smelled of stale air and desperation.

After a day and a night of rattling highways, we arrived at the Richmond estate. The sunset bled across the sky, setting the sprawling stone manor ablaze with golden light. When a uniformed maid opened the massive oak door, her eyes swept over us, cataloging our worn jeans and my mother’s faded coat in a single, dismissive glance.

I clutched the frayed hem of my shirt, my knuckles white, and looked away.

Eleanor Richmond, Kian’s mother, swept out to greet us. She was a woman sculpted from grace and money, with a laugh like the tinkling of a crystal wind chime.

“We owe you such a debt of gratitude for taking care of Kian all these years,” she said, her smile perfectly polished. “I’ve been meaning to call, but things have just been a whirlwind.”

My mother managed a tight smile, her own voice strained as she tried to match the pleasantry. But her eyes kept darting toward the grand staircase, searching. I knew that look. She missed Kian with an ache that thirteen years of love had carved into her soul. It wasn't something she could just let go of.

“You’re busy, Mrs. Richmond, we understand. I just wanted to see him for a minute, just to know he’s…”

Eleanor stopped and graced her with another radiant smile. “I had the staff notify him you were here. Dinner is almost ready. You must stay.”

Seated at a long, white marble table, I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. Mom squeezed my hand under the table and, from her worn, floral-print purse, discreetly passed me a crushed dinner roll she’d saved from the bus station. A passing maid shot us a curious look before hurrying away. I quickly tucked the roll into my pocket, my cheeks burning with shame.

It was a long time before Kian came downstairs.

The moment he appeared, Mom was on her feet, rushing to him.

“You’ve lost weight.” Her hand hovered near his cheek. “Why haven’t you called? Are you warm enough in just that?”

Kian finally lifted his eyes from his phone, a flicker of annoyance in them. He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “There’s central air, Mom. And I’ve been busy. I’m training at the company.”

The word “Mom” sounded foreign, clinical. She flinched, her hand dropping to her side. She nodded silently and returned to her seat.

I stared at the boy sitting across from me, a stranger in a designer shirt. A ghost of memory flickered—my mom taking me to visit a distant relative in a town hollowed out by poverty. Kids my age roamed the streets, fighting over scraps of food like feral dogs.

We found Kian in an alleyway, his clothes torn, his eyes vacant. He’d been cornered by a group of older boys. Mom chased them off, then gently cleaned his cuts, wrapped him in her own coat, and gave him the apple she’d been saving for me.

As we were about to leave, he grabbed the sleeve of her coat. His small arm was a canvas of purple bruises.

My mother’s eyes welled with tears. “As long as I’m alive,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “you’ll have a place to eat.”

And just like that, the three of us—me, my mom, and Kian—became a family.

2

The maids filled the table with a dazzling array of dishes—roasted chicken, glistening fish, platters of things I couldn’t even name.

Eleanor Richmond took her seat at the head of the table, her smile unwavering. “Please, eat. I hope you find something to your liking. I’m still trying to figure out Kian’s tastes. What did you usually cook for him?”

Mom’s face softened with the memory. “Oh, he’s never been picky. Sautéed potatoes, peppers, green beans… he’ll eat anything you put in front of him.”

Eleanor paused, her fork hovering over a slice of duck. “And what about his favorite splurges? A good steak, perhaps?”

“He… he was never much of a meat-eater, really.”

The lie was so thin it was transparent. Mom’s health was fragile, and just keeping two growing kids fed and in school was a constant struggle. Meat was a luxury we couldn’t afford.

Eleanor’s smile didn’t falter, but it lost its warmth. “Is it that he doesn’t like it,” she murmured, her voice laced with honeyed poison, “or that he couldn’t have it?”

The question hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The silence was deafening.

I instinctively looked at Kian, but he was absorbed in his phone, his thumb scrolling endlessly.

I tried to break the tension. “He loves scrambled eggs,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Mom makes the best.”

Before the words had even settled, Kian let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “It was the closest we ever got to surf and turf.”

A memory stabbed at me. Our neighbor’s hen would occasionally leave an egg on our porch, and Mom would always scramble it with fresh green beans from our tiny garden, dividing it into two small, precious portions. I remembered sitting across from Kian, fighting over the last bite in his bowl.

I’d pouted, half-joking. “I’m never going to grow if you keep eating my eggs!”

Back then, he had laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a tenderness that made my heart ache now to remember. “Okay, okay, you can have mine too,” he’d said, pushing his bowl toward me. “Our Chloe needs to eat up. You’ve got to grow taller than me.”

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