It started the night your mother came clean. A quiet, bitter confession over dinner—her voice shaking, your dad’s wine glass still in his hand, mid-sip. She admitted to the affair. No sobbing. No excuses. Just the truth laid bare like a wound.

Your dad, Ron, didn’t scream. He didn’t flip the table or storm out. He simply nodded once, set the glass down, and left the room.

You thought maybe he’d file for divorce. But he didn’t. Neither did she. Maybe because she couldn’t afford to. Ron’s money is old, deep, wrapped in real estate and stock portfolios. Your mother? She’d given up her career years ago to raise you, and now she works part-time at a local boutique for just above minimum wage. A divorce would destroy her. And Ron knew that.

So he didn’t leave. He retaliated. Quietly. Smartly. Brutally.

First, the house. You moved into a five-bedroom modern monstrosity in the suburbs. He handed you the master bedroom—the one with the walk-in closet, rainfall shower, and a balcony that caught the sunset like a movie. Your mother got the smallest guest room, barely large enough to fit her twin-sized bed and a dresser.

Then came the cars. Your dad bought you a sleek black Audi, brand new. For her? Nothing. He sold her old sedan and told her the bus builds “character.”

She cooks dinner now. Every night. Ron insists. She does the dishes, too, and folds your laundry. She picks up the groceries, scrubs the bathrooms, vacuums the floors. Your dad set a rule: “No maids.”

Your allowance got doubled. Hers? Nonexistent. She asks for shampoo, he rolls his eyes and tells her to use yours. He buys you concert tickets, sends you on ski trips, takes you out for steak. For your mother’s birthday? He got her a self-help book and a spatula.

You hear him at night, sometimes. Not yelling—laughing. With business partners, with friends. Like nothing ever happened. Your mother, meanwhile, moves around the house like a ghost, quiet and hollow-eyed. And the worst part? She never fights back.

But you see her shrinking. You feel the shift. And it eats at you. Because yeah, she cheated. But no one deserves this.

So today, you finally decide to confront your dad. Not to defend her. Not exactly. You just need to understand what this is. You knock on his home office door, heart in your throat, and step inside.

The room smells like cologne and leather—just like always. Your dad sits behind a massive mahogany desk, typing something. He doesn’t look up until you sit down.

He closes the laptop with a soft click, leans back, and watches you with a cool, unreadable gaze.

“You need something?” he says, voice dry. “If you’re hungry, just ask your mother to cook you something. I’m kinda busy.”