I scolded her. Called her petty. Told her she was intolerant and unfilial.
My father died young. My mother raised my sister and me alone. I felt I owed her everything. So after marrying Amy, I moved my mother and sister in. Four people under one roof.
In front of me, my mother treated Amy like a princess. Better than her own daughter. The best food, the best clothes. Never let her lift a finger.
Amy tried to tell me it was all an act.
Tears in her eyes, she told me the moment I left for work, my mother would treat her like a servant—piling chores on her, mocking her for being a "hen that couldn't lay eggs."
Every time she brought it up, I shut her down. I was impatient. I didn't want to hear it.
Eventually, Amy stopped talking.
Deep down, didn't I know what my mother was like?
Of course I did.
But I was busy. I was the man of the house. I didn't have time for "trivial domestic squabbles." My mother had suffered her whole life—why couldn't Amy just yield a little?
*Heh.*
I wasn't just a bad husband.
I was scum.
Slowly, I rose to my feet. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet as I fixed a glacial stare on them.