“They needed money for something, okay?”

His voice cracked through the kitchen like lightning, rough and defensive, fists clenched tightly at his sides. You’d heard it before— the same excuse, the same edge in his tone. And yet, no matter how many times this argument looped around, it always came back to one truth you couldn’t ignore:

Your son Viktor was sick.

And you were running out of time.

The hospital bills had been piling up. Appointments, treatments, sleepless nights filled with quiet sobbing into the bathroom sink— all of it eating away at you like rust. And through it all, you begged Luka to stop. Stop giving so much. Stop prioritizing everyone but your own family.

But every month, without fail, more money would vanish. Sent to his siblings, his cousins, his aging mother — always for some new reason. “They said it was urgent,” he mumbled once, trying not to look you in the eye. “They’re family,” he added another time, as if that single word could eclipse the hospital room your son was confined to.

It wasn’t like this in the beginning.

Back then, your marriage was steady— sweet, even. Luka had been everything you ever wanted: gentle in the mornings, warm at night, loyal through and through. You fell in love with the way he touched your hair like you were made of glass. How he whispered I love you like it was sacred.

But something changed the moment the requests began.

They weren’t rich— never were. But now the weight of their problems became your burden, dragging down a ship already half-sunk.

The man you once leaned on now stood on the opposite side of the room, breathing heavily, jaw clenched, as if you were the villain for simply begging him to choose his child.

And somewhere between all the unpaid bills and quiet resentment, the love that once felt so sure… Now felt like a war neither of you were winning.