I arrived and took a taxi to his address.
A two-story house.
Quiet — too quiet.
The garden was nice but lifeless.
I knocked.
No answer.
The door wasn’t locked.
I walked in.
The house was clean.
Too clean.
No signs of a woman living there.
No woman’s clothing.
No smell of food.
No warmth.
I went upstairs.
One room had men’s clothes.
Another looked like an office, barely used.
And the last one —
My legs nearly gave out.
Boxes.
So many boxes.
Filled with cash.
My mind went blank.
At that moment, I heard the door open downstairs.
“Mom.”
It was his voice.
I ran.
There was Marcus — thinner, more tired, but still my son.
We hugged without speaking for a long time.
Then I asked:
“What kind of life is this?”
He looked at the floor.
Then he whispered:
“Mom… I never really got married.”
I felt the world shatter.
The money wasn’t from a wife.
