“Why have you lost so much weight?” she asked, her voice soft but urgent. “Are you feeling unwell? Have you been overworking yourself taking care of our daughter?”
She reached out, intending to feel my forehead, but I shifted away calmly.
“Mom and Dad are still here,” I said in a low voice. “Don’t.”
My dad, standing nearby, chuckled but kept his eyes down, pretending not to hear. The smirk tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed him.
Elysia pouted slightly but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped gift box. With a flourish, she opened it to reveal a stunning, sunlit watch worth millions.
“Do you like it?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice. “I wanted to thank you, honey, for taking such good care of our daughter this past month. You’ve worked so hard.”
I accepted the gift with a faint smile and kissed her gently on the forehead.
“It’s too nice to wear,” I said softly. “Let’s put it away for now. Come on, dinner’s ready.”
She nodded, her smile unwavering, showing no sign of disappointment.
What a thoughtful and perfect wife.
When dinner was finally served, Elysia stepped out to the balcony to take a call.
My parents and I shared an unspoken understanding: no one reached for their chopsticks.
We waited. Half an hour passed before Elysia returned from the balcony, and only then did we begin to eat.
My dad, usually composed, seemed unusually flustered today. His attempts at conversation were clumsy, almost forced.
“Here, try this,” he said, placing food on Elysia’s plate. “This is your mom’s specialty. You won’t find anything like it outside.”
My mom chimed in with a nervous smile, her embarrassment thinly veiled.
“It’s nothing special. As long as you like it, I’ll make more next time. Come home often, okay? Bring our precious granddaughter… we’d love to see her more.”
Their expressions—hopeful yet anxious—made my appetite vanish. I pushed my chair back and stood.
“Thaddeus,” my mom called quickly. “Where are you going? Eat first; the food will get cold.”
“It’s fine,” I replied calmly. “I’m going to make some milk. The baby will cry if she’s hungry.”
In the nursery, I prepared the milk powder with practiced ease. As soon as the bottle touched my daughter’s lips, I heard it—a heavy thud outside. Then another. And another.
Three distinct sounds.
I glanced at the clock, counting the seconds, then walked out of the room.