He didn't know how many times I had stood on the balcony, looking down at the concrete, wondering if the fall would bring peace.
But then I would see my son's face.
And I would step back.
He was the only thing keeping me here. My only tether to this miserable life.
"Lunatic," my husband spat.
He scooped up our son and retreated to the bedroom.
---
From that day on, our home became a tomb. Cold. Silent.
In public, we played the part of the happy couple. In private, we only spoke about the boy. I cooked, cleaned, and raised our child like a single mother while he watched from the sidelines with indifferent eyes.
Occasionally, when the mood struck him, he would play with our son for a few minutes.
The "fun dad."
Years bled into one another. My patience eroded. I became irritable. Short-tempered. I gave up on my husband completely and poured every ounce of my energy into my son.
I got him the best tutors. Enrolled him in the best classes. Sacrificed everything for him.
But as he grew, something twisted.
Despite the fact that I was the one who was always there—he became disrespectful. He rolled his eyes at my rules. He snapped at me. He threw tantrums whenever he didn't get his way.
Yet he looked at his father—the man who barely knew him—with absolute adoration.
*Boys are just closer to their fathers,* I told myself. *It's a phase.*
Until that night.
---
It was 9:00 PM. I had just finished the housework, my back aching. My son was sprawled on the sofa, watching TV, a bag of potato chips in his hand.
"Go wash up and get to bed. You have kindergarten tomorrow."
He ignored me.
My husband sat next to him, scrolling on his phone, equally deaf to my voice.
"I said go to bed." My voice rose.
My son suddenly hurled the bag of chips across the room.
"I know! You're so annoying! All you do is nag, nag, nag!"
"Can you stop *controlling* me?"
Chips exploded over the sofa I had just vacuumed. Crumbs scattered everywhere.
The string that had been holding me together finally snapped.
"I am your *mother*!" My voice shook the walls. "If I don't control you, who will? And I told you not to throw food!"
My son jumped up, stomping his feet in a rage that mirrored his father's.
"Who cares if you're my mom? I don't *want* you! Why don't you just go die?"
The world stopped.
I froze, the air punched out of my lungs. Those words—from the child I had sacrificed my life for. The treasure I had held in my palm.