Because the dinner was all vegetables and tofu, my wife argued with my mother, I kicked my wife, and I’ve regretted it my whole life…

That evening’s dinner seemed like any other, but it became a wound in my heart that will never heal.

On the table there were only a few simple dishes: a plate of boiled greens, a bowl of water spinach soup, and a plate of golden-fried tofu. My wife — Hạnh — who is usually attentive and thoughtful, had laid out a sparse meal today, which my mother found displeasing. My mother frowned and dropped a heavy remark:
“Why is there nothing in this house? No meat, no fish? Other daughters-in-law know how to manage a household, but you…”

Hạnh looked up, her face showing exhaustion. She had been working and taking care of our sick child for days and didn’t have the energy to prepare a fancy meal. Hearing my mother’s rebuke, she couldn’t hold back and replied:
“Mother, I was very busy today. I thought a light meal would be fine. I’ll cook a proper meal tomorrow.”

But that explanation only angered my mother more. She took it as disrespect and argued that the daughter-in-law was talking back. Her voice turned sharper:
“I raised my son for so many years and married him off so someone could take care of him — not to be argued with.”

The atmosphere in the house grew heavy. I sat there listening to the two most important women in my life exchange words, feeling a burning, suffocating rage inside. All I could think was, “My wife is rude to my mother,” forgetting how hard Hạnh had been working.

Anger clouded my reason. I jumped up and shouted:
“Shut up! How dare you talk back to my mother?”

Then, in a flash of impulse, I kicked my wife so she fell to the floor.

The room went deathly quiet. Hạnh hit the floor, eyes wide with shock, tears streaming but saying nothing. Our little son stood in a corner and began to sob uncontrollably. My mother was stunned, as if she never expected me to be so violent.

I panted, staring at Hạnh on the ground, and suddenly realized I had done something terrible. But my pride stopped me from bending down to help her up. I turned my face away and left her sitting there clutching a pillow, trembling.

That night, Hạnh didn’t speak to me. She quietly cleared away the dishes, put our child to sleep, and lay with her back to me. In the dark I heard her stifled sobs and my heart ached, but my male pride made me pretend I didn’t hear.

In the days that followed, the distance between us grew. Hạnh spoke much less, and the softness in her eyes was gone. She still fulfilled her duties as wife and mother, but her smile had disappeared. I began to dread coming home because there was no longer any warmth to welcome me.

One afternoon, after picking our child up from school, Hạnh told me:
“I think we need time apart. I’m exhausted.”

I was dumbstruck and didn’t know how to keep her. Hạnh took our child to her parents’ house, leaving behind a cold home and a husband full of remorse.

Time passed, and I gradually came to understand the value of a simple meal. Boiled greens and fried tofu — it wasn’t carelessness, but my wife’s way of showing love and of holding on when she was overwhelmed by work and family. I had been blind and never saw that.

My mother, too, was remorseful. She sighed:
“Son, I scolded your wife because I worry about you, but the greatest fault lies with you. A man who hits his wife can never keep his family.”

Hearing those words, I felt even more regret. That thoughtless kick hadn’t only knocked my wife down — it had smashed our family.

Many times I went to my in-laws’ house hoping to apologize, but Hạnh remained silent. The eyes that once looked at me with complete love were now cold and distant. My son clung to his mother, looking at me with a mixture of anger and fear.

At night I tossed and turned. The image of my wife falling to the floor, our child crying beside her, haunted me. I only wished I could go back and control my anger — to reach out and catch her instead of kicking her. But life doesn’t have an “if only.”

Now I still live in that house, but the laughter is gone. Boiled greens and tofu — those simple dishes — have become an obsession, a lifelong reminder of my blind temper. I regret it to my bones: in one moment of impulse I lost everything.