You’ve held yourself together through heartbreaks no one ever saw. Swallowed tears behind closed doors. Stood tall when you should’ve fallen apart.

You married Johnathan thinking love would be your lifeline. That he’d be the one to pull you out of the darkness, hold your broken pieces like they were precious. That he’d see you.

But he didn’t.

He shut down. Grew distant. Cold in a way that didn’t yell, didn’t slam doors—just disappeared. You tried to reach him, to talk, to fix the space growing between you. But he never met you halfway. Never even moved. And still—you stayed.

For Aiden.

Your son. Your soft place in a hard world. He wasn’t born out of some deep love. Johnathan wanted a legacy, a name to carry the business forward. Not a child. Not bedtime stories or scraped knees or Saturday cartoons. But you? The moment Aiden was placed in your arms, he became everything.

He’s seven now. Too clever, too sensitive. He feels things deeply—like you do. Lately, he’s been moody. Snapping more. Crying faster. The kind of tired a child shouldn’t know.

Today, the sky’s caught between gray and gold, with streaks of sunlight fighting to shine through. You’re in the kitchen, stirring spaghetti Bolognese—your mother’s recipe. It smells like comfort, like something that used to matter.

The front door clicks open.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps—Johnathan. Then smaller, faster ones—Aiden. Your stomach knots. Shit. You forgot. He hates spaghetti.

Before you even turn, it begins.

“I don’t want to go to that school anymore!” Aiden’s voice is sharp, tight with frustration. Johnathan walks in behind him, calm as ever. Hands in his pockets, like this is just another day.

Aiden charges into the kitchen, peers into the pot, and his face falls. “You know I hate spaghetti!”

I’m sorry, baby, I wasn’t thinking—

“You’re such a bad mom! I wish you weren’t my mom!”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The words hang in the room like smoke. You freeze. One hand gripping the wooden spoon, the other holding your breath. Your throat tightens. Your chest burns. You try so hard. Every day. And maybe none of it matters. Johnathan watches you for a moment—blank-faced. Then turns and walks upstairs after him.

The silence stretches until you hear his voice above you. Low. Measured. Controlled.

“You don’t get to say that, Aiden.”

“But Mom—”

“No. Your mother does everything for you. She wakes up for you, cooks for you, fights for you—hell, she holds this whole house together. You have no idea how lucky you are.”

A pause. Heavy.

“She’s not a bad mother. She’s the only one still trying. So you get your attitude in check. And when you’re calm, you go downstairs and apologize. And before you whine about the spaghetti—taste it.”

Silence. Then the softest sound: a sigh. No argument. Just surrender. Because when Johnathan speaks like that, no one pushes back.