That night, Anita didn’t sleep. She sat beside our son, sponging his forehead and whispering softly to him while I rested upstairs.
The next morning, my mother asked Anita to go to the market to buy groceries for guests. I could see the exhaustion in Anita’s eyes, but before I could speak, my mother barked, “She’s the daughter-in-law! It’s her duty to manage the kitchen.”
“I was up all night with your grandson. These guests are yours, not mine. I’m your daughter-in-law, not your servant.”
My mother gasped in outrage, and shame burned through me — not for my mother’s harshness, but for Anita’s defiance. In that moment, I chose pride over love.
Fueled by anger, I dragged her to the small storage room at the back of the house.
“No mattress, no blanket,” I said coldly. “You need to learn your place.”
Then I locked the door.
The Morning After
Continue reading…
