Of course he did. He'd left my wife alone, hungry, recovering, and scared, and then gone to the neighbors' house to spend the afternoon in comfort, while the money I'd earned lay in the kitchen, disguised as thoughtfulness.
I picked up the bowl again. Even holding it made me nauseous.
"Hue," I said, in a voice so calm it surprised even myself, "I want you to stay here. Lock the door after I leave. Don't open it for anyone but me."
She looked up abruptly, fear blazing in her eyes. "Please don't scream. The neighbors..."
“The neighbors,” I said softly, “are the least important thing to me right now.”
I set the imported milk on the table, took one last look at my wife and son, and headed for the door with the bowl in hand. By the time I stepped out into the blinding afternoon light, my heartbeat had become cold and regular.
Across the street, laughter came from the neighbors' patio. I immediately recognized my mother's voice, warm and serene, as if nothing in my house had broken during her absence.
I crossed the street without feeling the heat. When I reached the gate and saw her sitting there smiling with a glass of juice, I realized that what terrified me most wasn't what I'd found in the kitchen.
It was her absolute belief that she would never be discovered.
I stood in front of the neighbor's gate, the bowl weighing heavily in my hands. I could hear my mother's laughter coming from inside, a sound that should have been comforting, but now seemed out of place. I felt anger building in my chest, like a fire that had been smoldering for weeks, waiting for an excuse to explode.
I stepped forward, moving by myself with my feet, and knocked on the gate.
The laughter stopped abruptly, and there was a pause before my mother's voice reached me. “Who's there?”
"It's me, Mom," I said in a low but firm voice. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat and knew I wasn't the same man who had left the house an hour earlier.
The gate creaked open, and I saw her standing there, her smile fading as she noticed my expression. The pleasant facade she so easily put on faded, replaced by the wary look I'd seen hundreds of times throughout my childhood.
She was still wearing her robe, the same one she wore when I was little, her hair neatly tied back, and she was still clutching a glass of juice. Everything about her seemed perfect, as if she had been waiting for this moment, yet there was a subtle uneasiness in her demeanor.
At first, I didn't say anything. I simply handed her the bowl. She lowered her gaze, briefly resting on its contents, before looking back at me, her expression unreadable.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice firm but lacking its usual warmth.
"Your daughter-in-law," I said, letting the words hang heavy in the air. "She ate this. Why?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't immediately respond. Instead, he stepped back, opening the gate wider. "Come in. We can talk."
I didn't follow her immediately. Instead, I took a deep breath and let my anger subside. I'd never confronted my mother like this before. I'd never needed it. She had always been the pillar of our family, the one I counted on, the one who took care of everything. The thought of her betraying my trust so completely felt like a punch in the gut.
When I finally got inside, I saw my neighbor sitting at a table on the porch, pretending to be busy with her phone, even though I knew she'd heard me. My mother motioned for me to sit down, but I remained standing, unwilling to let my guard down.
"I don't understand," I said, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. "Why did you do this to her? Why didn't you take care of her like you promised?"
My mother didn't look at me right away. She took another sip of juice, her fingers shaking slightly. I noticed, but she quickly hid it behind the glass.
"You don't understand, son," she said finally, in a measured, almost cold tone. "I did everything for you. I took care of your home, your finances, your wife and your child. I made sure everything was perfect for you."
