I’m sorry, Mom, but the farther we are from you, the better off we’ll be. We’re leaving. Goodbye.

It wasn’t even a conversation. It was a monologue — mine — the final one, like a sentence. And you know what? I didn’t expect a response from you. I simply didn’t give you the chance to say a single word. Because I knew that if I did, it would all start again: the accusations, the tantrums, the manipulation. Because that’s who you are, Mom — a woman used to controlling, commanding, and breaking others.

“She’s taking all your money!” — you yelled when you found out my wife and I were moving out.

Really, Mom? That’s coming from you? You, who lived your entire life off Dad’s paycheck. You waited for his salary like it was a holiday. Always dissatisfied. Always criticizing. But my wife is not like you. We work together. We support our family together. We pay off our debts together. We go on vacation together. What we have is fair. A partnership, not submission. We’re a team. And you’re only familiar with submission — where the man must suffer in silence.

“She doesn’t deserve you!” — your voice again.

No, Mom. She does deserve me. Because she loves me — not for money, not for looks, not for status. She loves me exactly as I am. With all my quirks, habits, and soul-deep scars. And I love her. Not for any particular reason. I just do. I don’t need “that same old girl,” the daughter of your friend you tried to set me up with. The one who’s already on her third child with her third man. Don’t judge, Mom, if you don’t know the truth. And stay out of it.

“Those aren’t even your kids! You’re wasting your time on someone else’s!”

Mom, I’ll decide who belongs in my life. These children are part of it. I love them. And even if they weren’t my wife’s, I’d still stay. Because being a father has nothing to do with blood — it has to do with choice. And I’ve chosen to be here. To be support. To be a father. And you? You’ve never been to a single one of their birthdays. Never brought a toy. Not even a smile.

“She doesn’t even know how to make cocido madrileño!”

And thank God for that! I’ve hated cocido madrileño since I was a child. But you forced me to eat it — every last spoonful. Do you remember how you’d scare me with the belt if I didn’t finish? My wife doesn’t make cocido madrileño — and I’m happy about that. I’m free. I eat what I like. I live how I want.

“She doesn’t even sew your socks!”

Correct. She doesn’t need to. I don’t need mended socks. I’m not Dad, who wore worn-out clothes while you bought yourself a new dress. I can buy whatever I need. I have everything I need. And my wife isn’t a maid. She’s a person. A personality. A partner.

“You clean the house yourself! What kind of woman allows that?”

A normal one, Mom. Modern. Hardworking. A woman who respects herself and respects me. I’m not helpless. I can wash dishes, cook my lunch, make the bed. That doesn’t make me weak. It makes us equal. We have mutual respect — not a dictatorship.

“That’s not even your son!”

He is my son! And if you don’t believe it, take a test. I’d love to see your face when you get the results. But you know what? It’s not about DNA. He’s my son because I’m here. Because I love him. And you? You’ve never been to a school event, a birthday. You didn’t even send a card.

“She’s going to leave you! She’ll find someone else!”

Maybe. And if she does, it’ll be fair. Because you’re doing everything you can to drive her away. You humiliate her. You follow her to work. You even tried to give her money to leave me. You spread lies about her. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think she doesn’t tell me?

That’s why we’re leaving, Mom. To another city. We’ve already found a daycare, a school. We have jobs. Everything is planned, everything is ready. But we won’t tell you where. I’m sorry, but the farther we are from you, the better. The more chances we’ll have to be happy. We want to live — not just survive under your shadow.

Goodbye, Mom. Please don’t look for us.