The next day dawned with a bleak sense of inevitability. Rehema rose early, her body exhausted but her mind unable to rest. The baby stirred in his crib, his soft whimpers pulling her from her thoughts. She cradled him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"It's just you and me, little one," she whispered.
The sound of the shower running told her Ali was home. She hadn't even heard him come in. Anger bubbled under her calm facade as she prepared breakfast, her movements sharp and deliberate. Today, she wouldn't let him walk away from her questions.
By the time he appeared in the kitchen, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, Rehema was seated at the table, waiting.
Ali grabbed a slice of bread, biting into it casually. "Morning," he said without looking at her.
"Where were you last night?" she asked, her voice steady but firm.
"Out," he replied, his tone dismissive.
"I deserve a better answer than that."
He sighed, setting the bread down. "Rehema, we've been over this. I don't owe you an explanation every time I step out of this house."
"Yes, you do," she said, her hands trembling under the table. "You're my husband. I have a right to know."
Ali laughed, the sound cold and hollow. "You have a right? What about my right to peace? To come home without being interrogated like a criminal?"
"This isn't peace, Ali. This is avoidance," she snapped.
He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. "Maybe if you weren't so suffocating, I wouldn't have to avoid you."
Her anger flared. "Suffocating? I'm suffocating? Ali, I've been patient. I've stayed silent while you've come home late, while you've treated me like I'm nothing more than a burden."
"If the shoe fits…" he muttered under his breath.
The words stung, but Rehema refused to back down. "You can't keep running away from this. From us."
"Us?" he repeated, a bitter smile on his lips. "What us? You mean you and your endless complaints? Because that's all this feels like."
Tears pricked her eyes, but she swallowed them down. "Do you even love me anymore?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Ali looked away, the silence louder than any words he could have spoken.
"Do you?" she pressed, her voice breaking.
He exhaled sharply. "Love isn't enough, Rehema. Not when you've turned it into a prison."
She stared at him, her heart shattering into pieces. "A prison? That's what this marriage feels like to you?"
He didn't respond, his silence confirming everything she feared.
The baby's cries broke through the tension. Rehema stood, her legs unsteady, and went to pick him up. She cradled him close, her tears falling onto his tiny hands.
When she turned back, Ali was gone, the sound of the front door slamming echoing through the house.
---
Later that evening, Ali's mother arrived unannounced, her presence a storm Rehema wasn't prepared for.
"Rehema!" she called out from the living room. "Where are you? Why is this house so quiet?"
Rehema emerged, holding the baby. "Mama, I wasn't expecting you."
"Clearly," her mother-in-law said, eyeing the cluttered living room. "Is this how you keep my son's home? No wonder he's always out."
Rehema bit her tongue, her hands tightening around the baby. "It's been a difficult few days."
Her mother-in-law waved her off. "Excuses. That's all I hear from you. A woman's job is to make her home a sanctuary for her husband. Not a war zone."
"Mama, I'm trying—"
"Try harder," she interrupted, her tone sharp. "Ali works hard to provide for you and this child. The least you can do is give him peace when he comes home."
Rehema felt the familiar sting of shame, her voice faltering. "I just want him to come home, Mama. To be present."
Her mother-in-law scoffed. "Maybe if you were more like a wife and less like a warden, he'd want to be here."
The words cut deep, reopening wounds that hadn't had the chance to heal. Rehema lowered her gaze, fighting back tears.
The older woman softened slightly, but her words remained pointed. "Rehema, marriage isn't easy. You have to endure. That's what I did. And look at me now. I raised strong sons, despite the hardships."
"Hardships?" Rehema asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yes," her mother-in-law said, nodding. "Your father-in-law had other wives, other children. But I held my head high. I didn't complain because I knew my place."
Rehema's chest tightened, the weight of her mother-in-law's expectations suffocating. "Mama, I don't know if I can live like that."
Her mother-in-law sighed, shaking her head. "You young women are too weak these days. Love isn't about happiness. It's about duty. And if you don't learn that soon, you'll lose him for good."
As the older woman left, Rehema stood in the doorway, her baby in her arms and her heart heavier than ever.
---
Life Lesson:
"Endurance has its limits. Knowing when to stand up for yourself isn't weakness—it's strength in its purest form."