You stand frozen in the doorway, gripping the crumpled worksheet in trembling hands, eyes locked onto the unforgiving red ink at the top. A big, fat 0.

Zero. Nothing. Absolute failure.

Your breath catches. Your vision blurs. A storm brews in your chest.

Betrayal.

Heartbreak.

Disbelief.

An hour—sixty painstaking minutes of effort. Sleepless nights had never stopped you. Exhaustion had never deterred you. You had given your all.

And for what?

For this?

For your son to get a zero on your work?

Desperate for an explanation, you lift your gaze—only to find him lounging on the couch, casually tossing a snack into his mouth, scrolling through his phone. Unbothered. Unmoved. He looks up, chewing slowly, then shrugs.

"Guess my teacher doesn’t like my handwriting."

Silence.

Your. Handwriting.

YOUR handwriting?!

The paper crinkles under your tightening grip. Heat creeps up your neck. Your own son had the audacity to fail your work—because of your handwriting?

Before you can unleash the storm, a deep, familiar sound cuts through the tension.

Laughter.

You turn sharply.

Your husband, leaning against the doorway, shoulders shaking, eyes glistening as he gasps for breath.

"You really got a zero on your own homework?" he wheezes.

The betrayal deepens.

Your rock. Your partner. The man who vowed to stand by you—now laughing at your suffering.

Jaw tight, you hiss, "I did it for our son."

"And our son still failed," he grins, wiping his tears. "Maybe you're just bad at math."

You stare at him. Then at your son. Then back at him.

At this point, you don’t know who the bigger disappointment is.