It was hard to believe.
Such cold, heartless words–from the very child I’d raised with my own two hands.
When did he become like this?
When did he rot from the inside out?
Jack wasn’t done. His voice climbed. “Mom, you keep saying Dad didn’t tell you anything, but did you ever stop to think why?
“You never cared about what happened at home. You’ve never cared about Dad at all! No wonder you had no idea he tried to kill himself.
“You’ve never been a proper wife.”
What a righteous accusation.
I didn’t care?
Of course I cared.
When we got married, I dreamed of a warm, loving family. Of building a life with someone who cared for me as much as I cared for him.
But Sebastian had been the one to draw that line.
Every time I tried to get close–tried to ask about his day, his work, his life–he pushed me away. Always with that same sharp impatience.
Even when he was sick, I offered to take care of him. And how did he respond?
With anger. Snapping at me until I backed off.
Eventually, I stopped trying.
I became like a trained dog–silent, obedient, existing only to keep the house running and pour everything I had into them.
For decades, that was my role. The unspoken rule.
