Part 2The Drumstick Dilemma

I stared silently at the dishes on the table.

Every day after work, I rushed to the grocery store like I was on fire, picking the freshest, most expensive ingredients, terrified that anything less would affect my son's health.

Then I’d rush home to cook, ensuring dinner was on the table before he got back from soccer practice, afraid he’d go hungry.

Every morning, his clean clothes were folded neatly by his bedside.

The house was always spotless—the result of me fighting off sleep every night to clean.

The pantry was never empty of snacks, fruits, and essentials. He never once had to think about where these things came from.

He was used to it, so he didn't see it.

He only saw his father leaving early and coming home late for work.

I felt a lump in my throat and couldn't help but ask him, "Mom works very hard too. Mom gets tired too."

He pushed the plate back toward his father again, sneering, "You only make that little bit of money every month. What's so hard about that?"

"Dad is the pillar of this family. He works the hardest."

I stared unblinkingly at Mark.

He looked guilty under my gaze and laughed it off. "Maya, don't lower yourself to a child's level."

His job was leisurely, and truthfully, his salary was far lower than mine.

But he insisted that as a father, his image should be tall and mighty. He needed to set a positive example to encourage our son to become a man who could hold up the sky.

So, in front of the kid, he lied about his income and drastically understated mine.

I thought it was for the boy's good, so I never said anything.

I never imagined that in my son's eyes, Mark was the provider, and I was just a useless moocher who didn't even deserve a chicken leg.

Thinking of this, I couldn't suppress the fire anymore.

I flipped the dining table.

Crash.

"Then nobody eats!"

Mark screamed, "Maya! Are you crazy?!"

I sneered, "If I don't go crazy now, I'm afraid I won't even deserve a mouthful of rice in this house later."

My son screamed and hid behind Mark.

"The Tiger Mom is going crazy again!"

Tiger Mom?

Is that what they call me in private?

Mark turned his face away uncomfortably, pretending to be angry as he patted our son. "How can you say that about Mom?"

My son didn't care. He ran out, shoved me hard, then hid behind Mark again, making a face at me.

My heart went cold.

This was the child I carried for nine months and raised with my own hands?

When he was born, he was weak and sickly. We were at the hospital every other day.

Mark always used "overtime" as an excuse. It was usually me, alone in the middle of the night, holding him while he got an IV drip.

I didn't have enough breast milk, so I researched every formula and supplement to make him strong.

Now he is indeed strong. Strong enough to push me onto the sofa.

It didn't hurt physically, but my heart felt like it had been stabbed.

Clutching my chest, I went back to the bedroom.