My mind wandered back to my mother's final moments—her pain and helplessness.
Despite the scorching sun outside, my heart grew colder and colder.
Quietly, I opened my cloud storage and began organizing the evidence I had collected over the years of my father's affair.
Every time I saw these photos proving their happiness and joy, it used to tear my heart apart.
But now, all I felt was indifference.
I had to thank the mistress' son.
His foolishness led him to accept a fake account I created using a seductive profile picture.
Through his social media, I learned that my father wasn't incapable of being a good husband or father.
He remembered every birthday of the mistress and her son, always buying them the most expensive gifts.
But he never remembered my or my mother's birthdays, always claiming to be too busy—so busy that he didn't even send a single greeting.
Yet, my mother still gladly took care of everything for him.
She always said, "Your father is just momentarily confused. He'll eventually realize who he should truly cherish."
But I knew better. If he knew how to cherish, could he stand by and watch his wife drink herself to a stomach ulcer just for work?