I returned three days early. Without warning. Not because I missed the house, but because the job finished sooner than expected. I’ve never believed in premonitions, but that day, standing in front of the gate, I didn’t rush to open it. I just stood there listening.

There were no voices inside. Only the soft clatter of dishes and my mother’s heavy, familiar breathing. I went in.

My mother was eating. A bowl of cold white rice with a squirt of Maggi sauce. There was no stew. No soup. Laura sat across from her, eating while scrolling on her phone; on the table, a plate of marinated meat still steaming hot. That scene was enough to understand: it wasn’t an isolated incident.

Laura saw me and startled for barely a second. Then she smiled. A polished smile. Precise. The right smile of a guilt-free wife.

—Did you arrive early?

I nodded. I sat down. I didn’t ask. I didn’t complain. I observed. My mother ate very slowly, as if she were afraid of bothering anyone. Laura ate quickly, as if no one else existed.

No anger exploded in my head. Just an arithmetic operation that was closing.

That night I didn’t ask my mother anything. I knew that if I did, she would cry. I let Laura sleep. I went to the living room, opened my laptop, and checked the expenses. Laura’s meals out were steadily increasing. Her grocery expenses were decreasing with the same regularity. Logical. Clean. Impeccable.

The next morning I woke up before everyone else. I stood on the stairs. I saw Laura call my mother in an emotionless voice. Neither harsh nor soft: the voice of someone giving an obvious order. My mother obeyed silently. Without protest. Without questions.

That’s when the decision was made.

It wasn’t the decision to get a divorce. Nor was it to punish. It was the decision to cut ties.

I waited until the afternoon. While Laura was putting on her makeup to go out, I left a stack of papers in front of her. I didn’t explain anything.

-Signature.

Laura smiled uncomfortably and asked what game I was playing. I didn’t answer. I looked at her the way you look at someone who’s already lost their courage. When she started to raise her voice, I spoke with complete calm:

“You didn’t mistreat my mother out of hatred. You did it because you knew she would endure it. And I don’t keep anyone who lives comfortably by relying on the resignation of another.”

Laura paled. She began to cry. Not out of regret. But because she had lost control.

I ordered a Didi. That same day I took my mother back to her village. I didn’t let Laura come. I didn’t allow any explanations. I only said one thing to my mother:

—From now on, you no longer have to try to please anyone.

Before leaving, I locked the safe. I transferred all the joint accounts to a personal account. I left Laura exactly the amount of money she had contributed. Not a penny more. Not a penny less. Not out of kindness, but because I didn’t want to owe anything.

Laura screamed. She said I was cruel. I agreed.

—Yes. But my cruelty is selective.

That night I texted my lawyer. The next morning I changed the locks. I didn’t block Laura’s number. I let her call. I didn’t answer.

I don’t need Laura to understand. I just need her out of my life.

Some say I’m too cold. I don’t dispute that. I only know one thing:
Whoever harms a defenseless old person with silent calculations deserves to be met with absolute silence.

And I do that very well.