Later, I confronted Daniel. While he lounged in the kitchen, I carried in a box and presented him with photographs—images of my mother curled on the mattress in the hallway, pale and exhausted.
His face fell. “What the hell is this?” he demanded.
“This is the truth,” I said. “This is what you did to my mother. You lied to her, and you lied to me.”
He sneered, calling her a burden, claiming he paid the bills and ran the house. His cruelty was undeniable.
I shook with fury but remained steady. “If I have to choose between you and my mother, I choose her. Every time. Get out. This is no longer your home.”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
That night, I told my mother she hadn’t caused any trouble. She hadn’t. It was Daniel who had revealed his true nature. With newfound clarity, I contacted a divorce attorney, understanding that ending nearly two decades of marriage would be difficult, but necessary.
Mom stayed with me through her treatments. Sophie returned home often, bringing laughter and warmth back to the house. Daniel called a few times, but I never answered. His place in our lives had ended.
I had chosen love, compassion, and loyalty over cruelty—and I would never regret it.
