He managed a weak smile instead.

But Edgar wasn't finished.

If anything, he was just getting started.

"Dad, rules exist for a reason."

"And to make sure you remember that, you owe us an explanation."

The next second.

Before either of us could react.

He stormed over to the stove, grabbed the pot, and slammed the remaining braised pork straight into the trash can.

Half a pot of meat, just... like that... thrown away like garbage.

My father's eyes went red.

So did mine.

But for different reasons. His were red because he worried I wouldn't be able to eat during my morning sickness. Mine were red from rage.

Edgar talked about rules.

But his mother was the one who'd never followed a single one.

In the three months since she'd moved in, she barged into my bedroom without knocking, helped herself to my skincare, wore my clothes without asking, and took unflattering photos of me no matter how many times I told her to stop.

Every time I lost my temper over it, Edgar's response was the same.

He'd say:

"My mom's getting older. Don't be so petty with her."

"She just used a couple of your things. Is it really that big a deal?"

"Come on, she raised me all by herself. You're my wife. Can't you show a little understanding?"

But when it came to my father, using one plate was suddenly a matter of principle?

And who gave them the right to set rules in the first place?

My father bought this house for me. They hadn't contributed a single cent.

For this house, my dad spent summers hunched over a blazing stove, sweat running down his back in rivers, soaking through enough shirts to wring out two full basins a day.

In winter, the cold split his fingers open, and he'd slap bandages on the cracks and keep cooking.

Day after day, up at three in the morning to buy supplies.

Closing up at midnight. Four hours of sleep, if that.

Now he was standing in a home his own money had paid for, and they wanted him to follow their rules?

In that moment, the entire marriage felt pointless.

If this was what it was, I didn't want it.

But I couldn't bring it up in front of my dad.

He'd carried guilt his whole life for not giving me a complete family growing up.

If I mentioned divorce now, he'd only spiral, blaming himself all over again.

I led Dad to the living room, bandaging his hand while I tried to comfort him.

"Dad, the pork's gone, but we can always make more."