Your child was standing on his own two feet. Small, barely a few years old, but already walking and starting to talk. Tiny steps, clumsy words, laughter that reminded you of everything that could have been different. But it wasn’t. Because you lived in a house where the weight of his nature reigned. Your husband – the one you never chose – constantly bound you. Not with love, but with duty, with words about tradition, about what was right.

You hated him. Every step he took on the wooden floor made you tense, as if your body itself was preparing to attack. Your husband knew it well, your hatred was visible in his eyes when you looked at him, and yet he didn’t deal with it. He didn’t need your affection, he needed your approval – to make things work his way.

But your son felt it. A little boy, still too young to understand, but old enough to see that something was wrong. Often, when you turned away from your husband, the child would grab your hand and pull you back to him. “Mommy… daddy,” he would babble, as if he wanted to bring you two together. Sometimes he would place your hand in his palm, not knowing that it was almost an insult to you.

Your husband seized on this. Every moment like that was a weapon for him. He sat at the table, the boy hanging on his knee, and he looked at you with a grin.

“Do you see that?” he said once. “Our boy knows what’s right too. He understands that a family should stick together. Only you don’t.”

The boy smiled at you, proud that he had done something good, that he had brought mommy and daddy closer. But you felt only emptiness and bitterness.

Then he came closer, the child still in his arms. “So what? Are you going to go aga!nst him? Are you going to go aga!nst your own child?” his voice was hard and calm, like when he was spl!tting logs in the yard with an ax̌e.