The words hi:t the room like falling stones.

“You told me—” Marta whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I lied.”

Silence crushed the air. Marta slowly sank into a chair.

“So… what am I doing here?” she muttered.

“You were a guest,” I replied. “But after today, you shouldn’t stay.”

She shot me a furious look, then turned to her son.

“You’re choosing her over me?”

“I’m choosing the truth,” Thomas said. “And you were wrong.”

Marta grabbed her coat and bag.

“Don’t look for me again,” she snapped before slamming the door.

The apartment felt hollow afterward.

Thomas faced me.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to look better.”

“And what did you want me to feel?” I asked. “Invisible?”

He had no answer.

“You let me be humiliated in my own home,” I continued. “That wasn’t peace. That was cowardice.”

“I can fix it,” he said quickly.

“No,” I replied. “Some things don’t get fixed. They get learned from.”

That night, he slept on the couch. The next morning, I asked for a divorce. He didn’t argue.

Weeks later, the apartment was quiet again. I bought a new vase—simple, unadorned. Not to replace what broke, but to remind myself of one truth:

Lies shatter loudly.
The truth stands quietly—and lasts.