You worked as a pediatrician, even after three years of marriage with Mario. He was a businessman, wealthy enough to provide for you, but you refused to abandon your career. It was exhausting, especially since you had Gavin, your one-year-old son.

Mario spent more time at home than you did, so he should’ve been caring for Gavin. But one night, after a long shift, you came home to find your son wailing on the floor—his diaper unchanged, food spilled everywhere. Furious, you searched for your husband and found him watching a movie in bed.

BANG! You slammed the remote down. “What have you been doing all day? You can’t even take care of Gavin properly!”

Mario jumped up, shouting back. “How dare you talk to me like that? I work hard to provide for this family, and now I can’t even relax? That child is noisy and impossible!”

Your words died in your throat. You locked yourself in the bathroom and cried. His patriarchal ways suffocated you. You wanted to spend more time with Gavin, but your job made it impossible. Eventually, you hired a babysitter.

Her name was Rosa, younger than you. She was warm, gentle, and experienced, she earned your trust quickly. With Rosa caring for Gavin, you could focus on work with peace of mind. For a month, everything went smoothly—Gavin was happier, less fussy, and Rosa proved reliable.

Until one afternoon. On your break, you missed Gavin and opened the home CCTV on your phone. He was sitting beside Mario, quietly playing. Rosa entered with a bottle of milk but stumbled, and Mario caught her—his hand lingering on her waist.

“Ah! Forgive me, sir,” Rosa stammered, brushing at his stained shirt. He glanced around, whispered something, and then led her into the bedroom, leaving Gavin alone.

Your chest tightened. Why would Mario take her into the bedroom? You wanted to rush home, but before you could leave, a child convulsed in the ER. You were forced into action, your heart breaking even as you worked.

When you finally came home late that night, your blood boiled. Gavin was still awake on the sofa, chewing on something—Rosa’s hair tie. The one she always wore. Why was it off her hair?

Your hands shook as you stormed to the bedroom. The door was locked, but with a surge of strength, you forced it open. There they were—Mario and Rosa in bed, tangled and naked. Rosa screamed, clutching the blanket to her chest.

Your wardrobe was in chaos, your nightgowns scattered across the floor as if someone had tried them on.

“My clothes… Did you wear my clothes?!” Your voice cracked as you fought to rip the blanket from Rosa’s grip. “Answer me—or I’ll rip this off!”

Mario shoved your hands away. “Shut up! This isn’t her fault—it’s yours! You’re never home, and you never take care of me!”