In that moment, I wished I *was* crazy.
If I lost my mind, maybe I wouldn't have to feel this suffocating despair.
He didn't know how many times I had stood on the balcony, looking down at the concrete, wondering if the fall would bring peace.
But then I would see my son's face.
And I would step back.
He was the only thing keeping me here. My only tether to this miserable life.
"Lunatic," my husband spat.
He scooped up our son and retreated to the bedroom.
---
From that day on, our home became a tomb. Cold. Silent.
In public, we played the part of the happy couple. In private, we only spoke about the boy. I cooked, cleaned, and raised our child like a single mother while he watched from the sidelines with indifferent eyes.
Occasionally, when the mood struck him, he would play with our son for a few minutes.
The "fun dad."
Years bled into one another. My patience eroded. I became irritable. Short-tempered. I gave up on my husband completely and poured every ounce of my energy into my son.
I got him the best tutors. Enrolled him in the best classes. Sacrificed everything for him.
But as he grew, something twisted.
Despite the fact that I was the one who was always there—he became disrespectful. He rolled his eyes at my rules. He snapped at me. He threw tantrums whenever he didn't get his way.
Yet he looked at his father—the man who barely knew him—with absolute adoration.
*Boys are just closer to their fathers,* I told myself. *It's a phase.*
Until that night.
---
It was 9:00 PM. I had just finished the housework, my back aching. My son was sprawled on the sofa, watching TV, a bag of potato chips in his hand.
"Go wash up and get to bed. You have kindergarten tomorrow."
He ignored me.
My husband sat next to him, scrolling on his phone, equally deaf to my voice.
"I said go to bed." My voice rose.
My son suddenly hurled the bag of chips across the room.
"I know! You're so annoying! All you do is nag, nag, nag!"
"Can you stop *controlling* me?"
Chips exploded over the sofa I had just vacuumed. Crumbs scattered everywhere.
The string that had been holding me together finally snapped.
"I am your *mother*!" My voice shook the walls. "If I don't control you, who will? And I told you not to throw food!"
My son jumped up, stomping his feet in a rage that mirrored his father's.
"Who cares if you're my mom? I don't *want* you! Why don't you just go die?"
The world stopped.
I froze, the air punched out of my lungs. Those words—from the child I had sacrificed my life for. The treasure I had held in my palm.
He started crying. A loud, retching sob. Acting as if *he* were the victim.
My husband finally looked up, frowning.
"It's just some crumbs. He stayed up a little late. Do you have to scream like a banshee?"
My face drained of blood. My hands trembled.
"Did you hear what he just said to me?"
He waved a hand dismissively, his eyes drifting back to his screen.
"He's just a child. You're taking an angry kid's words seriously? How old is he, and how old are you? Stop being so dramatic."
"Look at yourself. What is the difference between you and a lunatic?"
Cole's voice could have flash-frozen steel. No comfort. No concern. Just undisguised disgust dripping from every syllable.
He snatched Jonathan's hand, yanking him away from me. "Come on. Daddy will get you cleaned up. We won't lower ourselves to this madwoman's level."
Not a single backward glance. The bathroom door clicked shut behind them.
The sofa cushion beneath me might as well have been concrete. My mind churned—a storm with no eye, no center, no escape. By the time the tremors in my hands finally stilled, half an hour had bled away into silence.
The apartment was tomb-quiet. No sounds from Jonathan's room. He must have cried himself to sleep.
But unease prickled along my spine like tiny needles. I couldn't rest. Not until I saw him.
The hinges whispered as I eased his door open.
Jonathan lay curled beneath his comforter, but the tear tracks on his cheeks glistened in the dim light. Every few seconds, a small, ragged sob escaped his lips—even in sleep.
Guilt clawed at my chest, sharp and relentless. I wanted to slap myself. *This is my son. The person I love most in this entire world.*
I tucked the blanket tighter around his small shoulders and straightened up. Tomorrow was his birthday. The Ultraman figure he'd been begging for sat on his desk; I positioned it front and center—the first thing he'd see when he opened his eyes.
I imagined the joy spreading across his face come morning.
My hand reached out, almost absently, to right the family portrait lying face-down on the desk.
I turned it over.
The smile died on my lips.
My face had been scribbled out with thick, black marker.
Bitterness surged up my throat, tasting like bile. *He's just a child,* I told myself. *Being naughty. A prank. That's all.*
As I set the frame down, my elbow caught the edge of his diary. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
I bent to retrieve it. The notebook had fallen open.
The words swam into focus.
My blood turned to ice.
Row after row of dense, angry scrawls covered the page:
*Mommy, go die.*
