On the forty-ninth day memorial for my mother, the house was so silent that I could clearly hear the incense burning away, inch by inch.
This house was built with the money I sent home.
Not once.
Not for a few months.
But for many years.
Every coin I earned far away, every month I clenched my teeth and denied myself, all of it turned into these walls, this roof, and the cold tiled floor beneath my knees right now.
So from the very beginning, I knew one thing clearly:
I would never walk out of this house on my own.
I knelt before my mother's altar, back straight, head bowed low.
I wasn't praying.
I wasn't begging.
I was simply there, like a part of this house that had always belonged to me.
Incense smoke curled upward, drifting along the ceiling that still smelled of fresh paint. My mother's portrait stood at the center of the altar. The eyes in the photo stared straight ahead—no sadness, no anger—as if she was already tired, unwilling to be involved in any more conflicts among the living.
Behind me, the door was pushed open hard.
He was back.
My stepfather.
The stench of alcohol entered before he did. He didn't look at the altar. He didn't light incense. He just leaned against a pillar, glancing at me as if I were something in the way.
"Kneeling here since morning?"
He sneered.
"Who are you putting on a show for?"
I didn't turn around.
I knew him well.
He only dared to talk.
He had never dared to hit me, because he knew very clearly—I was not someone he could raise a hand against.
"This house,"
he continued, dragging his words out,
"is suddenly feeling a bit cramped."
My fingers tightened slightly.
"When someone dies and someone stays,"
he glanced around deliberately, making sure others could hear,
"they should know their place."
I stood up and slowly turned around.
"If the house feels cramped,"
I said calmly,
"it's because someone who had no part in building it has been standing here too long."
The air instantly grew heavy.
Several relatives glanced at me, then lowered their heads again. Everyone knew I was right, but no one had the courage to speak for me.
His face darkened.
"Watch your mouth."
He pointed at me, but his finger stopped halfway in the air.
"I'm your mother's husband."
"And I,"
I replied,
"am the one who sent the money to build this house."
The words fell softly.
But they were heavy enough that no one in the house dared to speak.
He snorted and changed his tone.
"The money you sent was for your mother's medical treatment."
"Yes."
I nodded.
"But my mother didn't turn that money into walls and a roof by herself. I was the one who allowed it to be used to build this house."
He had no argument left.
Only a bitter laugh.
"You think having money gives you rights?"
I looked straight into his eyes.
"At the very least,"
I said,
"I have the right to stay."
He fell silent—not because he accepted defeat, but because he knew that if he made a scene today, he would be the one who lost face.
Just then, a deep voice sounded behind me.
"That's enough."
My uncle stepped forward.
The man I had always called Uncle. Quiet. Rarely meddled in others' affairs. But once he spoke, no one dared to ignore him.
"Today is a memorial day,"
he said.
"Not a day to argue over wins and losses."
My stepfather scoffed.
"You're taking her side?"
My uncle didn't look at him.
He looked at me.
That look… made me pause for a heartbeat. It wasn't pity. It was something deep and heavy, as if he had been watching me for a long time—only today did he finally look straight at me.
"Go pack your things,"
my uncle said gently.
"Come stay at my place for a while, alright?"
I frowned.
"I'm not going anywhere. My mother is still here, and this is my house,"
I said clearly.
"I hope you understand, Uncle."
He nodded lightly.
"I know,"
he said.
"I just hope you can rest for a while. You've worn yourself thin for too long. This house… you can come back anytime you want."
Those words made my throat tighten for a moment.
"Come with me, alright?"
he added softly.
I don't know why, but when I heard that, I nodded unconsciously. Perhaps I really needed a quiet place.
My stepfather stood there, not daring to say another word. He won with his mouth, but lost to the truth.
I packed quickly. My backpack wasn't heavy—not because I owned nothing, but because the things that truly belonged to me were still in that house.
Before leaving, I turned back to my mother's altar.
"Mom,"
I whispered.
"I'm only leaving for a while. I'll come back often to be with you."
The incense smoke continued to rise steadily.
My uncle waited at the gate.
"Let's go,"
he said.
I followed him without turning back.
When we arrived at my uncle's house, three children suddenly ran out—two sons already grown, and a younger daughter. When they saw us enter, they immediately bowed their heads in greeting.
That first night, lying in my uncle's house, I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Quiet.
Cold.
But free of hypocrisy.
I didn't cry.
I simply closed my eyes and thought:
If the first seventh day was already like this,
then for the next ones…
I will no longer make any concessions.