But what she did not know was that the storm in this house had only just begun, because Shindu did not yet know an even bigger truth — a truth his own mother had hidden for many years.
And when that truth was finally revealed, not only this marriage, but the entire house would never be the same again.
Shindu turned to his wife.
“Three months.”
Those two words fell into the room like a heavy object — not loud, but enough to freeze the air.
Ada forced a smile, a quick, strange smile, like someone hastily filling a crack in the wall.
“She is saying nonsense,” she said, glancing quickly at the maid.
Gozi, standing in the corner of the room, clutched her apron with both hands. She looked at Shindu, then lowered her eyes to the polished floor that shone like a mirror.
But once spoken, truth rarely goes back where it came from.
The young woman’s voice trembled.
“Madam, she was sent outside.”
Ada turned sharply.
“Gozi!”
But Gozi continued speaking, as though stopping halfway would only worsen the fear inside her.
“Because you said she was dirtying the house.”
The room became silent, as though all the air had been sucked out.
Shindu felt his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears. Not because he was shocked, but because the fragments of memory in his mind were slowly coming together.
He remembered the late-night calls from America. Ada’s soft voice through the screen.
“Mom is already asleep.”
“She went to visit relatives for a few weeks.”
“She doesn’t want to talk today.”
Back then, he never questioned it. He thought his mother was old and easily tired. He thought his wife was taking good care of her. He thought the family was still united.
But now, when he imagined the rain-soaked mat outside by the door, all those words suddenly became shards of broken glass — cold and sharp.
His mother had never left this house.
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