He frowned.
“Maybe they’re napping,” he told himself.
But even then… the house shouldn’t feel this hollow.
He stepped inside—and the silence wrapped around him like a cold hand.
No children running.
No voices.
No footsteps.
Just… nothing.
His unease grew with each step deeper into the mansion.
Then, from the hallway leading to the living room, he heard something—a sharp, irritated voice.
His wife’s.
“Do it properly! I don’t want to ask twice,” she snapped.
He walked forward—and froze.
There, on the polished marble floor, was his mother.
On her knees.
Scrubbing the tiles with one hand…
…while balancing his two small children on her shoulders like she was some kind of pack animal.
Her face was flushed red from exhaustion, her back trembling under the weight of the kids.
She wasn’t smiling.
She wasn’t playing.
She was being ordered.
And his wife—perfectly dressed, perfectly composed—stood above her, hands on her hips, barking demands like a queen displeased with a servant.
The millionaire felt the ground shift under him.
His mother—who had spent her whole life working two jobs to raise him alone.
His mother—who had given him everything he had.
His mother—now treated like this… in his home.
His wife, thinking she was alone, turned to scold the children again.
But when her eyes met his standing in the doorway—
Her smug expression cracked.
Then broke.
She went pale.
She tried to speak, but no sound came out.
Because the look on his face was something she had never seen before.
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