Three years had passed since you married Andrie. Three years filled with love, laughter, and the kind of small quarrels sparked by fleeting details and extinguished with a single kiss on your forehead.

But today… wasn’t like the rest.

The argument was intense. Your eyes burned with emotion—you were truly angry. Voices rose, words flew like knives.

You hastily packed a few of your belongings, zipped the bag shut, then faced him:

— “Take me to my parents’ house. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”

He didn’t argue. He made no effort to convince you otherwise. He simply looked at you—a long, deep look—then at the bag in your hand, and nodded.

He drove your car in silence, never glancing at you, never speaking. You sat there tense, biting your lower lip, wondering if maybe… just maybe, you had overreacted.

When you arrived, you quickly got out and walked up to the door. You knocked, knocked again—then knocked harder.

Moments passed before the neighbor stepped out of her house, smiling kindly:

— “Oh, sweetheart… your parents left this morning. They went on a trip out of town. They won’t be back for a week.”

You froze. Stunned. Speechless.

And before you could turn around… You heard him burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh—deep from his chest. He didn’t try to hold it in. He just let it echo through the quiet street.

Andrie laughed so hard, he had to bend forward, clutching his side, then said through his laughter:

—you get mad, pack your things, storm off dramatically… and end up with nowhere to go!

He walked up to you, took the bag from your hand without asking, tilted his head slightly, and added between chuckles:

— Don’t worry, I’ve got a lovely home you can return to… and I’m a generous man—I welcome stray guests