I could hear laughter from the yard. A group of women sat drinking coffee.
My mother was among them.
Laughing.
Like nothing was wrong.
When she saw me, her smile froze. “Son? Why are you home early?”
“Come,” I said. “We need to talk.”
My tone silenced everyone.
We walked back in silence.
In the kitchen, Lily stood up immediately, lowering her gaze.
My mother noticed the bowl.
For a split second, her expression changed—but then she smiled.
“Oh, that? That was for the cats.”
My anger rose.
“Then why was my wife eating it?”
She crossed her arms. “Because she’s stubborn. She insists on eating things she shouldn’t after giving birth.”
“Things she shouldn’t?”
I pointed at the bowl.
“This?”
She pursed her lips. “In my day, women ate less after childbirth. That’s why they were strong.”
Lily’s shoulders trembled.
And in that moment, I understood—
if I stayed silent, nothing would change.
“Mom,” I said calmly, “the money I send you every month… what is it for?”
“To help the house,” she replied.
“No.”
My voice was firm.
“It’s to take care of my wife.”
Silence.
She stared at me.
“So you’re choosing her over your own mother?”
The question hung heavy.
I looked at Lily.
At the bowl.
Then back at her.
“I’m choosing what I can see.”
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