The next morning, the sun filtered through the small window of the storeroom, casting long shadows across the floor. But the room was empty. Anita was gone, and so was our son. My heart dropped to my stomach as the realization hit me—she had left. I frantically searched the house, hoping she might be somewhere within, but deep down, I knew she had gone.

Outside, the world continued as usual, unaware of the turmoil that had taken hold of my life. The chirping of birds and the sound of children playing in the distance felt surreal. My mother, still in her morning routine, noticed my distress and looked at me with a mixture of confusion and judgment.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, obliviously.

“She’s gone, Ma,” I muttered, feeling a chill run down my spine as I spoke the words. The gravity of the situation hung heavily in the air.

My mother’s face hardened, and she pursed her lips. “Good riddance, then. If she can’t respect her elders—”

But I couldn’t hear it. My mind was racing. Where could Anita have gone? How far could she have possibly traveled with our son in such a short span?

The day turned into a haze of phone calls and desperate attempts to reach out to Anita’s family. They hadn’t heard from her either. Panic had settled in now, a relentless throb at the back of my mind.

As the hours dragged on, the silence in the house became oppressive. My mother’s presence, once a source of comfort, felt stifling. I replayed the events of the past weeks over and over in my mind—every argument, every word, every choice where I had sided with my mother instead of my wife.

An eerie emptiness filled our home. Anita’s laughter, her gentle humming as she tended to our son, the warmth she brought to the household—gone. I couldn’t shake off the image of her tired, resigned face as I had forced her into the storeroom.

It was late evening when I finally sat down, exhausted and defeated. My mother, finally realizing the gravity of her daughter-in-law’s absence, sat across from me, a troubled frown etching lines deeper into her face.

“What will you do now?” she asked quietly, her voice no longer carrying its usual sharpness.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know. I had spent so much time being the “dutiful son” that I had lost sight of being a supportive husband. The realization was harsh and unforgiving. I had let my pride and adherence to tradition push away the woman who had promised to be a part of