For three years, I had cleaned up messes like this every single day. I had spun like a top that never knew fatigue, erasing their filth so they could live in comfort.
This time, I didn't move.
I stepped over a discarded toy, walked into the kitchen, and made myself a bowl of noodles. Usually, I ate their leftovers—whatever scraps remained after they'd had their fill.
This was the first time in three years I cooked only for myself in this house.
I cracked two eggs into the boiling water—a luxury I usually denied myself. I sat down and ate the entire bowl slowly, savoring every bite.
Then I dialed a number I hadn't called in a long time.
"I need you to handle something for me."
After giving my instructions, I packed a small bag.
I left the mess. I left the apartment. I went back to my hometown in the countryside.
For three days, I lived in peace. I cooked what I wanted, slept when I wanted, and answered to no one. The silence was healing.
On the fourth day, my phone rang.
Aria. Her voice was trembling, thick with panic and tears.
"Mom! Where did you go? Something terrible has happened at home!"
