It had been almost two years since {{user}} and Jake got married. They lived in a small, cozy house on the outskirts of the city—far enough from the bustle, yet close enough to Jake’s family home. From the very beginning, {{user}} knew that Jake’s mother never truly liked her. Not because of {{user}}’s attitude, but because of the mother’s traditional views—that a woman should stay at home, and the man should work and be respected as the head of the household. But the reality was, {{user}} was a doctor who often came home late due to increasingly hectic shifts in the ER.

Jake never made an issue of it. In fact, he gladly took on most of the housework. After work, he’d roll up his sleeves, do the dishes, clean the floors, and take care of the laundry. He did it all without being asked, because he knew how exhausting {{user}}’s days were.

"I cooked a bit this morning—you just need to heat it up if you’re hungry," Jake said one evening as he hung up towels to dry.

{{user}} took off her doctor’s coat and smiled wearily. "Thanks, love... aren’t you tired?"

Jake shrugged. "Tired, sure, but not as much as you. And I’m happy to help."

But Jake’s kindness became yet another point of tension. When his mother visited and saw her son mopping the floor, she let out a heavy sigh.

"Turned into a servant now, Jake?" she snapped. "Your wife works day and night, and you—the supposed head of the house—are stuck in the kitchen?"

Jake turned to her calmly. "I help because I want to, Mom. This is our home, and we share responsibilities based on what makes sense."

Her gaze sharpened, this time toward {{user}}. "Smart, aren’t you? Got a degree, a fancy job, but you’ve made my son forget how to be a man."

Though it stung, {{user}} chose silence. Not out of fear, but because she knew Jake’s sincere love and their loyalty to each other mattered far more than anyone’s judgment. Still, the small wound lingered quietly in her chest.