“Mom,” he said slowly, each word like a promise, “if this is our house, then you will never be the one disturbing anyone.”
He stepped over the threshold.
Inside, the lights were blinding. The television was still loud. The air smelled of strong perfume. On the table sat a half-empty glass of red wine.
And at that moment, a woman’s voice called from the hallway — Ada’s voice, familiar and confident.
“Shindu, is that you? You are home already?”
Shindu did not answer immediately.
He only looked toward the voice, feeling seven years of trust collapse into one thing: truth.
Tonight, no one would be allowed to hide it any longer.
Shindu entered the house. The living room lights were so bright that they almost blinded him after being outside in the rain.
Everything inside looked exactly like the photos Ada had sent him over the years: the cream-colored sofa, the elegant glass coffee table, the large flat-screen mounted on the wall.
Only one thing was different.
His mother had never been part of that picture.
Ada sat on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, her phone in her hand. Her voice was cheerful and relaxed — the same laugh he had heard through hundreds of video calls across the ocean.
“No, no, let’s go to the spa next week…”
Her sentence stopped short when she looked up. She saw Shindu standing at the door. Rainwater was still dripping from his hair onto the floor, and in his arms he was carrying his mother.
Ada froze as though someone had suddenly turned off the sound in the entire room.
“You—when did you come back?”
Shindu gently placed his mother on a chair near the door. She sat there small and timid, her hands gripping the edge of her skirt as though she feared dirtying the house.
He did not answer her question. He simply looked her straight in the eyes.
He had just seen his mother sleeping outside by the door.
The air in the room turned cold.
Ada blinked several times, then quickly changed her tone. The smile returned to her lips, but too fast, like a mask being put back into place in a hurry.
“You misunderstood,” she said softly. “Your mother likes to sit there because it is cooler.”
Shindu said nothing. He only looked.
He looked at his wife’s new high heels, the gold bracelet on her wrist, the perfect living room. And he thought about the rain-soaked mat outside by the door.
At that moment, a young woman came out of the hallway.
It was Gozi, the new maid Ada had briefly mentioned during one of their calls. The girl stopped when she saw Shindu. Her eyes widened.
“Sir!”
Then she looked at the elderly mother sitting with her head lowered and said something — something very small, but enough to break everything.
“She has been sleeping there for three months.”
The room went silent.
Nobody moved. Even the sound of the rain outside seemed to stop.
Ada turned sharply toward Gozi, her eyes cutting like knives.
“Shut up!”
But it was already too late.
Shindu felt something break inside him.
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