“My mother doesn’t decide what leaves my house.”
My mother-in-law tried to step in.
“I told her to take them.”
He looked at her only once, and she fell silent.
That was when I realized it had nothing to do with the fabric. He was furious because I had done something without fearing him first.
A few minutes later, he ordered me to come with him.
“Where?” I asked.
“To the field.”
I wanted to refuse. I wanted to run back to the wedding house, where there were women, voices, and witnesses. But I was a young wife in a village where women were taught that disobeying their husband brought more shame than suffering because of him.
So I followed him.
The road seemed endless. Behind us, I could still hear the distant laughter from the wedding. With every step, those voices grew fainter until only the wind, the dust, and the man walking beside me remained.
Then I saw what he was carrying.
A sharp farming tool.
My body understood before my mind could accept it. I told myself he only wanted to frighten me. I kept repeating to myself that no man would truly destroy his wife over two pieces of cloth.
I was wrong.
When we reached the empty field, there was no one nearby. No women. No neighbors. No one who could stand between his anger and me.
He turned to me and asked,
“Which hand did you use to take the cloth?”
My mouth went dry.
The rest can be found on the next page.
