Everything used to be fine.
Our house was small, but it was full of laughter. My mother would hum while cooking, my two younger siblings would fight over toys, and I—well, I was just a kid who believed nothing could go wrong.
That illusion shattered the day my father was sent on an out-of-town assignment. He was just a regular private employee, but for some reason, he was gone longer than expected. Weeks turned into months, and eventually, we stopped waiting at the window.
One night, I discovered something I wish I hadn't.
I saw the messages. I saw the woman's name. I saw how my father had replaced us.
And it was me—yes, me—who told my mother the truth.
I thought I was doing the right thing.
But instead of holding me, thanking me for my honesty, she looked at me like I had torn her world apart. From that moment on, she changed. Her warmth turned into cold silence. Her love, once so effortless, became conditional. And I? I was no longer the son she knew.
Since then, I started to hate my father.
And because of him, I started to hate women too.
I blamed them for stealing him away. I blamed them for the tears my mother cried. I blamed them for every broken piece of my childhood.
I was just a kid, and yet I carried the weight of a secret that ruined everything.
Now, I look at my siblings—still too young to understand—and I wonder if they'll grow up resenting me the way she does.
Maybe they already do.
"Sometimes, the ones who break you are the ones you once trusted to protect you."