“Because… she’s your mother.”
Those words hit harder than anything.
She wasn’t afraid of hunger.
She was afraid of hurting me.
I stood up.
“Where is she?”
“She’s probably at Mrs. Carter’s house,” Lily said quietly.
I grabbed my jacket. “Stay here.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at her. “Fix this.”
Mrs. Carter’s house was two doors down.
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—