“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice had grown stronger.
She looked at her son, her gaze softening.
“I did not want you to worry.”
She paused, then added:
“I did not want you to think badly of your wife.”
Those words painfully tightened something in Shindu’s chest. Even after being forced to sleep outside, she was still thinking about protecting the family.
Ada stood behind them, still crying.
“You have to understand me,” she said, her voice broken. “I handled this house alone for seven years. I was tired. I just wanted everything to remain clean.”
Shindu turned to her.
He walked slowly to the door and opened the iron gate. A blast of wind and rain entered the living room, gently making the curtain sway.
He pointed outside.
“That mat — is that how you keep the house clean?”
Ada did not reply.
For the first time in her life, she did not know what to say.
Shindu looked one last time around the room. The sparkling chandelier, the brand-new sofa. Everything looked clean and perfect.
But the price of that cleanliness had been an elderly mother sleeping outside for three months.
He turned back to his mother.
“Mom,” he said softly, “tonight you sleep inside.”
She immediately shook her head.
“That is not necessary, my son.”
“No,” Shindu said.
His voice was not loud, but firm as steel.
