A Night of Pride and Blindness
I never believed she would actually leave.
Her parents’ home was five hundred kilometers away, and in Davao, she had no one but me. I told myself she wouldn’t dare go anywhere—she didn’t even have access to our savings.
So that night, I went to bed feeling self-satisfied, resting my head on a tall pillow beside my mother.
My mother, Sharda Devi, had always seen herself as the ultimate martyr of our family. She expected my wife to be silent, obedient, and endlessly grateful.
And I — the so-called dutiful son — went along with it.
A wife should just endure a little for the sake of family, I used to tell myself. What’s wrong with that?
