Chapter 1 — The Night I Finally Chose My Wife
Chapter 1 — The Night I Finally Chose My Wife
I stepped forward.
My mother looked at me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
The kitchen was still running.
Water poured from the faucet.
Anna stood beneath it, trembling.
Her wet hair clung to her face.
One hand was pressed protectively against the enormous curve of her stomach.
The other was gripping the edge of the sink.
And my mother was still holding a fistful of her hair.
I had seen my mother angry before.
I had seen her insult Anna.
I had heard her criticize the food Anna cooked, the clothes she wore, the way she spoke, the way she laughed, even the way she held her unborn child.
But I had never seen this.
Not until 3:12 in the morning.
My mother slowly released Anna's hair.
She straightened her robe.
Then she looked at me as though I were the one who had interrupted something inappropriate.
“You're awake.”
I stared at her.
“What are you doing?”
She glanced toward Anna.
“Teaching your wife some respect.”
Anna lowered her eyes.
That hurt more than anything.
Not because she was afraid of my mother.
Because she was afraid of what I would do.
She had been protecting me from this.
For months.
And I had mistaken her silence for peace.
My mother sighed.
“She refused to finish the dishes.”
I looked at the sink.
There were perhaps six plates.
Six.
My pregnant wife had been standing there in the middle of the night, washing six plates in freezing water while my mother stood behind her.
“You woke her up to wash dishes?”
“She is living in my house.”
I felt something inside me break.
“No.”
My mother frowned.
“What?”
I stepped between them.
“She is my wife.”
The kitchen became silent.
Anna looked up.
My mother stared at me.
Then she laughed.
A small, disbelieving laugh.
“You're defending her now?”
“Yes.”
“You're choosing her over your mother?”
I looked at Anna.
Her face was pale.
Her lips were trembling.
She looked exhausted.
And suddenly I remembered every little thing I had ignored.
The meals she skipped.
The excuses she made.
The way she stopped sitting in the living room when my mother entered.
The way she had started locking our bedroom door.
The way she had once whispered:
Please don't fight with your mother because of me.
I had thought she was being gentle.
She had been begging me to notice.
I turned back toward my mother.
“Yes.”
Her face changed.
“You don't mean that.”
“I do.”
“You're my son.”
“And she's my wife.”
My mother took one step toward me.
“You're throwing away your family for her.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You've been throwing away this family yourself.”
Her expression hardened.
“How dare you.”
“No.”
My voice rose for the first time.
“How dare you?”
Anna flinched.
I immediately lowered my voice.
Not because I was afraid of my mother.
Because I didn't want Anna frightened anymore.
I walked toward her.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Anna.”
She hesitated.
Then whispered:
“My stomach hurts.”
My heart stopped.
I looked at her belly.
“Since when?”
She looked at my mother.
That one glance told me everything.
I turned.
“Mom.”
My mother crossed her arms.
“She is exaggerating.”
“Since when has she been in pain?”
“She was fine.”
“Answer me.”
My mother looked annoyed.
“Maybe an hour.”
An hour.
My pregnant wife had been in pain for an hour.
And my mother hadn't called me.
I reached for Anna's hand.
It was ice cold.
“We're going to the hospital.”
My mother stepped in front of us.
“Absolutely not.”
I stared at her.
“She needs medical attention.”
“She needs to stop pretending she's fragile.”
“Move.”
“You are not taking my grandchild anywhere at three in the morning because your wife is having another emotional episode.”
Something inside me went completely still.
“Move.”
She didn't.
So I picked up my phone.
I called emergency services.
My mother stared at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling an ambulance.”
“You're humiliating me.”
I looked directly into her eyes.
“No.”
I said quietly:
“You did that yourself.”
Anna began crying.
Not loudly.
Just a few silent tears.
I put my arm around her.
“I've got you.”
She whispered:
“You're going to fight with her.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head.
“Please don't.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
She didn't answer.
I waited.
Then she whispered:
“Because I don't want you to lose your mother.”
My throat tightened.
“Anna.”
She looked at me.
“I already almost lost you.”
The words destroyed me.
Because she was right.
I had been standing beside my wife for months without really seeing her.
I had defended my mother because defending her was easier than admitting something was terribly wrong.
I had called it family tension.
I had called it misunderstanding.
I had called it stress.
But standing in that kitchen at 3:12 in the morning, watching my nine-month-pregnant wife tremble beside a sink, there was no word left that could make it sound harmless.
It was abuse.
And I had allowed it.
The ambulance arrived six minutes later.
My mother tried to follow us outside.
I stopped her.
“You're staying here.”
She stared at me.
“This is my house.”
“Yes.”
“And you're my son.”
“Yes.”
“Then you will not speak to me like this.”
I looked at her.
“Tonight I will.”
She raised her hand.
Not to strike me.
Just to point toward Anna.
“She is destroying this family.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
I looked at my wife.
“She is my family.”
Then I walked out.
For the first time in my life, I left my mother's house without waiting for her permission.
And for the first time in months, Anna held my hand all the way to the ambulance.
Neither of us knew that by sunrise, the doctors would discover something that would change everything.
Something my mother had been hiding.
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Something that would force me to ask the question I had been avoiding since the beginning of our marriage:
How long had my mother been trying to get rid of my wife?
