If the food was late, I blamed myself. If his voice turned cold, I spoke even less. If he looked at me as though I belonged to him, I told myself that perhaps all husbands were like that when no one was watching.
Then came the wedding of a neighbor’s daughter.
In our village, weddings belonged to everyone. Women brought food, blankets, flowers, and pieces of fabric to decorate the bride’s room. Even poor families wanted their daughters to begin married life surrounded by color and hope.
That morning, my mother-in-law opened a chest and handed me two pieces of cloth.
“Take these to the bride’s house,” she said. “They can use them for decoration.”
I didn’t steal them. I didn’t hide them. I took them with her permission, thinking only that I was helping another young woman prepare for the happiest day of her life.
At the bride’s house, the women laughed, arranged pillows, hung fabric on the walls, and gently teased the nervous bride. For a little while, I forgot the heaviness of my own home. I laughed with them and felt like I belonged somewhere.
That afternoon, Mehmet Ali found out about the fabric.
When he came home, he didn’t shout. That frightened me even more. He stood in the doorway and looked at me with a silence that made my hands go cold.
“Where are the cloths?” he asked.
“Your mother gave them to me,” I replied. “For the bride’s room.”
His face changed.
