On the day of my daughter's first full month, I did the unthinkable. I gently fed her a bottle filled with sleeping pills.

My parents, who had been bustling about all morning preparing for the celebration, were now lifeless. They lay in a crimson pool of blood, their once-vivid faces frozen in terror.

My wife, Elysia, who had only just emerged from confinement after childbirth, had her legs severed at the thighs. Her pale face was contorted in pain, her life hanging by a thread.

I dialed the police, my voice calm, almost kind, as I informed them of the situation. Then, I sank into the sofa and waited in silence, staring at the blood-streaked walls and the shattered remnants of our perfect life.

——

When the police arrived, I was removing the Rolex my father had given me—a symbol of the life they’d lavished upon me. The metallic stench of blood filled the room, making the officers flinch as they stepped inside.

The lead officer’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene and my unnervingly composed demeanor. His voice cracked with fury as he barked, "Did you do this? Why?"

"We already have some preliminary information. You're their only child. The neighbors said your parents adored you, treated you like their whole world. There were no signs of conflict. What could make you do something so horrifying?"

Yes, I am their only son.

My parents were everything a child could ask for—loving, generous, and endlessly supportive. Everyone who knew us envied my life.

Even in love, I had no struggles. I married Elysia after just six months of dating, and a year after our wedding, we welcomed our beautiful daughter into the world.

Today is our baby daughter's monthly milestone dinner.

My mother woke at five in the morning, eager to ensure everything was perfect. She gave my aunt the day off, insisting on handling everything herself. At the vegetable market, she chose only the freshest ingredients, carrying heavy bags back home despite the strain on her back. Even when she was visibly tired, she refused my help, brushing off her discomfort with a smile.

After putting the groceries away, she allowed herself a brief rest before walking over to me. She gently touched my daughter’s head, her expression soft and full of love.

"You take it easy," she said, her voice tender. "Mom will cook all your favorite dishes. Let your dad handle the milk powder. You haven’t been feeling well lately, so don’t push yourself too hard. When Elysia gets back from the hospital, she can take over looking after the baby."

As she turned to leave, her eyes caught something by my pillow—a small pile of hair. She quietly picked it up and tossed it into the trash, her movements deliberate.

"It's normal to lose hair," she muttered, more to herself than me. "Don’t overthink it. Just take care of yourself, and it’ll get better with time."

Her concerned nagging made my lips curl into a faint, indifferent smile.

"Mom, I’m an adult now," I said lightly. "You don’t have to keep worrying about me. Go take care of your own things."

When I was younger, I believed every parent loved their child this way—selflessly, endlessly. It wasn’t until I started school and casually shared stories about my family with my classmates that I realized how unique my situation was.

Their envious looks told me everything. For many of them, home was a place of "stick education," where discipline overshadowed affection.

But my parents? They have always loved me without limits. In 25 years, I’ve never heard them raise their voices at me, never experienced a quarrel that left scars. Our bond feels almost unreal.

My dad sat comfortably on the sofa, watching the morning news with a relaxed demeanor. When he heard my comment, he chuckled warmly.

"Your mother is like that," he said, his voice tinged with pride. "Even when you're in your seventies or eighties, you'll still be her precious son, the pride of our old Montclair Family."

Hearing this, my mother, standing nearby, bristled with mock indignation.

"And what about you?" she retorted, crossing her arms. "Who was the one so excited last night that he couldn’t sleep, staring at his granddaughter like he’d never seen a baby before?"

Caught off guard, my dad coughed awkwardly, trying to save face.

"Why bring that up in front of our son? I just... didn’t sleep enough because I’m old."

My mother rolled her eyes and turned to me with a look of exasperation. We exchanged a conspiratorial glance, both wearing faintly amused expressions.

Fatherly love in our family has always been subtle, hidden beneath layers of pride and humor. But their love for the younger generation? That’s never been understated.

As my mother returned to the kitchen, I gazed down at my daughter’s peaceful, sleeping face, lost in thought. It was then that my father tiptoed into the room, his movements deliberate and slightly exaggerated, as if enacting a secret mission.

He placed a thick red envelope on the table in front of me with a small smirk.

"Don’t tell your mother," he said in a low voice. "This is your father’s private stash, saved over a lifetime. It’s a money envelope for my precious granddaughter’s first month celebration!"

My father always claimed his private savings were for himself, but in truth, every cent had been spent on me—be it a sports car, a motorcycle, or even real estate and luxury watches.

I accepted the envelope with a quiet smile, but neither of us spoke much after that. He turned his attention to my sleeping daughter, reaching out to tease her tiny fingers.

Before he could succeed, my mother entered with a tray of freshly washed and cut fruit.

"What are you doing here, old man?" she said, mock-scolding him. "Don’t disturb Thaddeus and the baby! Out you go—the room stinks when you’re in it."

My dad, grumbling under his breath, left reluctantly. My mother, now smiling, turned to me.

"When will Elysia arrive?" she asked. "I want to time the cooking just right."

"She’s finalizing the formalities at the hospital," I replied. "She should be here soon. Don’t rush yourself."

At the mention of Elysia, my mother’s expression softened. She glanced at her hands—bony and worn from years of care—and sighed, as though hiding some unspoken emotion.

"Thaddeus," she said after a pause, her voice tender, "Elysia is a good woman. Your dad and I can see that. Girls like her who understand and care for their husbands are rare these days. You should give in to her more. Mom and Dad won’t always be here to guide you…"

Her words stirred something in me, and I found my eyes growing red. What a good mother—so loving, so patient. I nodded solemnly, pressing my lips tightly together.

Without another word, she pulled a pure gold bracelet from her pocket and carefully slipped it onto my daughter’s tiny wrist. She held her granddaughter’s hand for a moment, admiring it with an expression of deep satisfaction.

After a while, she seemed to remember I was there. She patted the back of my hand affectionately.

"There weren’t many styles to choose from at the jewelry store," she said apologetically, "but I’ll go to another one after I finish my work and find something nice for Elysia. Giving birth is like walking through the gates of hell. We shouldn’t favor one over the other."

I smiled and thanked her, though my heart grew colder.

Mom, I’m afraid Elysia won’t be able to wait for your gift.

She didn’t notice my change in demeanor, too preoccupied with her chores. With a contented sigh, she turned and walked back to the kitchen.

When Elysia returned, her arms were laden with bags of nutritional supplements.

The moment she stepped through the door, my dad forgot all about the news on TV. He stood up quickly, his usual composure replaced with urgency.

“Let me take those,” he said, hurrying over to relieve her of the bags. He placed them gently on the floor, one by one, and his voice brimmed with concern.

“How’s your recovery? Did you finish everything at the hospital? Was there traffic on the way? And why’d you buy so much? Your mom and I have everything here. Just focus on taking care of yourself… and Thaddeus and the baby. We’re fine.”

Hearing the commotion, my mom emerged from the kitchen, still wearing her apron. She awkwardly wiped her hands on it, her face lighting up.

“Elysia, you’re back? Go wash your hands first. The food will be ready soon. Thaddeus is in the bedroom watching the baby,” she said with a smile.

It’s often said that mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law are natural adversaries, but Elysia had a bond with my parents stronger than any biological daughter could claim.

Elysia smiled warmly at their concern, nodded, and headed to the bathroom to freshen up. As she walked away, my dad turned to my mom and waved her back into the kitchen.

“What are you standing here for? Get back to cooking! Everyone’s home now, and dinner’s still not ready. Don’t keep the three kids hungry.”

My mom gave him a playful glare but complied, returning to her work.

The atmosphere was warm and comforting—almost too perfect to leave behind.

In the bedroom, I opened the drawer of the bedside table and took my last dose of medicine. The bitter taste lingered as I swallowed, then stood and made my way to the living room.

As I stepped out, Elysia emerged from the bathroom. Her gaze fell on me instantly, her eyes brimming with worry.

“Why have you lost so much weight?” she asked, her voice soft but urgent. “Are you feeling unwell? Have you been overworking yourself taking care of our daughter?”

She reached out, intending to feel my forehead, but I shifted away calmly.

“Mom and Dad are still here,” I said in a low voice. “Don’t.”

My dad, standing nearby, chuckled but kept his eyes down, pretending not to hear. The smirk tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed him.

Elysia pouted slightly but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped gift box. With a flourish, she opened it to reveal a stunning, sunlit watch worth millions.

“Do you like it?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice. “I wanted to thank you, honey, for taking such good care of our daughter this past month. You’ve worked so hard.”

I accepted the gift with a faint smile and kissed her gently on the forehead.

“It’s too nice to wear,” I said softly. “Let’s put it away for now. Come on, dinner’s ready.”

She nodded, her smile unwavering, showing no sign of disappointment.

What a thoughtful and perfect wife.

When dinner was finally served, Elysia stepped out to the balcony to take a call.

My parents and I shared an unspoken understanding: no one reached for their chopsticks.

We waited. Half an hour passed before Elysia returned from the balcony, and only then did we begin to eat.

My dad, usually composed, seemed unusually flustered today. His attempts at conversation were clumsy, almost forced.

“Here, try this,” he said, placing food on Elysia’s plate. “This is your mom’s specialty. You won’t find anything like it outside.”

My mom chimed in with a nervous smile, her embarrassment thinly veiled.

“It’s nothing special. As long as you like it, I’ll make more next time. Come home often, okay? Bring our precious granddaughter… we’d love to see her more.”

Their expressions—hopeful yet anxious—made my appetite vanish. I pushed my chair back and stood.

“Thaddeus,” my mom called quickly. “Where are you going? Eat first; the food will get cold.”

“It’s fine,” I replied calmly. “I’m going to make some milk. The baby will cry if she’s hungry.”

In the nursery, I prepared the milk powder with practiced ease. As soon as the bottle touched my daughter’s lips, I heard it—a heavy thud outside. Then another. And another.

Three distinct sounds.

I glanced at the clock, counting the seconds, then walked out of the room.

The sight that greeted me was exactly as planned.

My parents lay sprawled on the floor, motionless and disheveled. Their breaths were shallow, faint.

Elysia was still conscious, slumped in her chair in the living room. Her eyes, wide with terror, locked onto mine. She struggled to move, to cry out, but the drug had robbed her of any strength, leaving her utterly silent.

I stepped closer, my expression unreadable.

“Good,” I said softly, crouching to meet her gaze. “Watch carefully. This is what retribution looks like.”

Her eyes filled with confusion and fear, darting between my parents and me.

I straightened, letting her soak in the scene. Every second of her helplessness felt like justice.

For now, I would let her watch.

I picked up a kitchen knife, its cold weight pressing against my palm. In the dim kitchen light, the hatred etched across my face was impossible to hide.

With measured steps, I walked to where my parents lay. I stopped in front of them, staring down at their still forms.

Raising the knife high, I aimed it at their hearts.

The first strike sent blood splattering across my face. Warm and sticky, it clung to my skin, but I felt nothing—no hesitation, no sadness. Only the grim satisfaction of justice.

When their final breaths faded into silence, I knelt briefly to confirm they were gone.

Satisfied, I turned my gaze to Elysia.

Her face was flushed with anger and terror, her bloodshot eyes wide with panic. She trembled, attempting to move, but her drugged body betrayed her. She could do nothing but pant heavily, trapped like a cornered animal awaiting slaughter.

Looking at her pathetic state, my hatred surged, threatening to consume me.

Why? Why does the one who caused all this get to live so easily?

Tears blurred my vision, spilling unchecked down my cheeks.

Gripping the knife tighter, I approached her. I raised the blade again, this time aiming for her legs.

The moment the blade made contact, a scream tore through the air before she fainted from the sheer agony.

One minute. That’s all it took to sever her legs completely.

Blood sprayed violently, painting the walls in grotesque crimson streaks, a chaotic masterpiece of vengeance.

I stood amidst the carnage, the sound of my own ragged breathing filling the room. But it wasn’t enough.

Hatred burned hotter, urging me forward.

I slashed her face twice, the knife carving deep, jagged wounds. Her once-pristine skin peeled back, revealing raw flesh beneath. The satisfaction was fleeting, but it dulled the edge of my fury.

The tip of the knife hovered at her chest. Slowly, it slid downward.

The thought of cutting open her heart pulsed through me, growing stronger with every passing second.

But just as I was about to surrender entirely to the darkness, a sound pierced through the haze of my rage—the faint cry of my daughter from the other room.

Reality crashed back, like a wave dousing a roaring flame.

I stood frozen, the knife trembling in my hand. My breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, reason clawed its way back into my mind.

My daughter.

Her innocent face flashed in my thoughts, cutting through the torrent of hate.

To ensure there were no survivors, I returned to check one last time.

My heart twisted as I found my daughter, lifeless in her crib. She had passed long ago after drinking the milk powder I prepared.

After all, she was my daughter. I gave her mercy—a painless escape from this cruel world.

I cradled her cold, fragile body for a moment, a flood of emotions surging through me. But there was no turning back. Placing her gently back in her crib, I walked away, resolute.

Returning to the living room, I opened the door wide to let the stench of blood dissipate into the air outside. The metallic tang hung heavily, but I had grown numb to it.

I called the police.

Before they arrived, I turned my attention back to Elysia. With what strength I had left, I made sure her body bore traces of the sins I wanted her punished for. When exhaustion overtook me, I dropped the knife and slumped onto the sofa.

My gaze fell on the fruit plate my mother had prepared before she died. How ironic. I ate each piece slowly, savoring the bitter sweetness of her final gesture.

The last slice was still in my mouth when the police burst through the door.

They rushed to Elysia, barely clinging to life, and whisked her off to the hospital. The house swarmed with officers, taking photos and gathering evidence.

If I weren’t their son, this would have been called a massacre—a tragedy that nearly wiped out an entire family.

Outside, the neighbors gathered, their voices a cacophony of anger and disbelief.

“I saw his mother buying vegetables this morning, and now she’s dead by noon. Killed by her own son—what kind of monster does that?”

“A beast, that’s what! Even animals don’t harm their own. His parents gave him everything, and this is how he repays them!”

“And his wife? Poor woman. I remember attending their wedding and eating their candy. Now he’s crippled her. What kind of evil man does this?”

I left the drugs out on the table, making no attempt to hide anything. The evidence painted a damning picture, all pointing squarely at me.

The officers turned to me, eyes burning with contempt. One stepped forward, his voice dripping with accusation.

“What was your motive? Why did you do this? They were your parents! And your daughter—just a month old! How could you?”

The weight of their questions pressed down on me, but I said nothing.

The drugs had worn off, and a searing pain shot through my body. I collapsed to the floor, curling into myself as cold sweat drenched my skin.

The officer closest to me sneered, kicking me lightly as if testing my reaction.

“Cut the act! Don’t even think about playing games with me. The evidence is airtight. Spill the truth!”

Before I could respond, another officer searching the room found something. He held up a document, his eyes scanning it quickly before freezing in place.

“This man…” he said, his voice faltering. “He has advanced bone cancer.”

The crowd exchanged bewildered glances before one voice broke through, seething with indignation:

"What does advanced bone cancer have to do with it? Not having much time left doesn’t justify killing your parents and daughter!"

Another chimed in, their tone laced with venom:

"Exactly! If he’s going to die soon, let’s just put a bullet in him now. No need to let him leave this world peacefully!"

"Anyone who murders their own family deserves the harshest punishment. A beast like him doesn’t deserve to live!"

Their accusations pierced the air like daggers, but I finally managed a weak breath and whispered:

"I plead guilty. I’ve never tried to escape or deny what I’ve done. I admit everything. I’ll even tell you my motive... but I need to see Elysia first."

The words had barely left my lips when a young officer stormed toward me, his face twisted in fury.

"You murderer! You’re in no position to ask for anything! Just tell us your motive and stop wasting time!"

Before he could come any closer, an older officer grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Calm down. Let him speak. He doesn’t seem mentally unstable. He didn’t try to run after committing these murders, so there’s probably more to this than we think."

The young officer hesitated, his jaw tight with resentment. "You’re saying he has a valid reason for wiping out his own family? What could possibly justify that?"

"Revenge," the older officer said quietly, his gaze fixed on me. "It’s got to be revenge."

For the first time, I felt a flicker of something close to acknowledgment. I met the older officer’s eyes, impressed by his intuition.

He was right. The motive wasn’t simple.

It had taken me 25 long years to uncover the truth—a truth so dark it had consumed me entirely.

When the officer finally agreed to my request, I let out a sigh of relief. The tension in my body eased just enough for the overwhelming exhaustion to take over. I collapsed to the ground, consciousness slipping away like water through my fingers.

In my dream, I was transported back to my childhood.

I stood in a tiny walker, clutching a Transformer in my small hands.

My parents trailed behind me, their faces lit with warm smiles.

For a fleeting moment, our family seemed perfect—like the happy ending of a story.

But the dream shifted. The warmth faded, replaced by my mother’s cold, indifferent voice:

"If you’re sick, you’re sick. Who doesn’t get sick? Stop making a fuss. No need to check. Trust me—I’ll find a doctor to see you at home."

My reply was cautious, almost pleading:

"Mom, I’m really in pain..."

"Mom, why have you changed so much since getting married?"

...

Suddenly, ice-cold water splashed onto my face, jolting me awake.

When I opened my eyes, I was being wheeled into a hospital corridor. My body ached, and my mind was clouded, but the cold voice of a policeman cut through the haze:

"Elysia is in there," he said, pointing to the intensive care unit. "Look at what you’ve done to her. Look at what you’ve cut her into!"

His tone grew harsher. "She hasn’t woken up yet, so how can she talk to you? You’ve seen her now like you wanted—so tell us your motive!"

I dragged myself toward the glass door of the ward, each step heavy with exhaustion. Through the glass, I saw Elysia’s pale, lifeless face on the bed.

Quietly, I shook my head. "I’ll only tell Elysia. If I wanted her dead, I would’ve killed her at home."

I didn’t want her to die. I wanted her to live—to bear the truth and suffer its weight for the rest of her life.

"You—!"

The policeman’s face turned crimson with fury. His anger made him lunge forward as if to drag me away, but his superior intervened.

"Get a grip," the captain barked, pushing the enraged officer aside. He sighed and turned to another officer. "Find the doctor. Ask when Elysia will wake up—or if there’s any way to wake her sooner."

I stood there, still as stone, waiting.

Perhaps it was divine irony—or fate’s cruel hand—but just as the officer left, Elysia’s eyes fluttered open.

The door to the ward creaked open, and she slowly turned her head toward the sound.

When her eyes locked onto mine, they burned with a hatred so fierce it felt like it could pierce through me.

"Thaddeus," she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "You killed your parents? Are you insane?"

Her words came sharper, dripping with venom. "They treated you so well! How could you? How could you live with yourself?"

Her anger swelled, and she tried to lunge at me, to strangle me, to end me. But her legs—her severed legs—failed her. She collapsed forward, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

Seeing her in that pitiful state, a bitter sense of satisfaction surged through me. My heart raced with the dark pleasure of revenge.

Tears streamed down my face, yet I laughed uncontrollably, my body shaking with raw, twisted emotion.

"Elysia," I said, my voice cold and cutting. "What right do you have to say that to me? What identity do you use to lecture me about loyalty?"