Daniel frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I didn’t respond. I simply walked to the kitchen and pushed the door open wider.
That’s when they saw it.
The room was unrecognizable.
Broken dishes scattered across the floor. Flour and rice spilled everywhere like white dust. Open cans dripping onto the counters. Tomato sauce smeared across the walls—red, chaotic. It looked like something had exploded inside.
A few of them gasped. His mother covered her mouth.
Daniel stepped forward, his jaw tightening. “What the hell is this?”
I turned to all of them, my voice steady.
“Since you treat this house like it’s yours,” I said, “then cleaning it is your responsibility. Not mine.”
Silence filled the room.
For the first time in months, no one had anything to say.
I walked past them and went to the bedroom, where my suitcase was already packed. When I came back, Daniel followed me, his voice low and tense.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“No,” I said quietly. “I’ve just stopped accepting something that was never fair.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond.
