The tension in the house was suffocating. Rehema hadn't spoken to Ali since their argument. She buried herself in her baking classes and avoided him at every opportunity. She had even stopped waiting up for him at night. If he wanted to stay out late, she wouldn't waste another sleepless hour worrying.
But silence, she realized, had its own weight.
It was late that night when Ali finally came home. The door creaked open, and the faint scent of perfume drifted into the room before he did. Rehema lay on the couch, pretending to be asleep. She heard his footsteps pause, then move toward the bedroom.
Her resolve cracked. "Ali."
The footsteps stopped. A moment later, he was standing in the doorway, his face shadowed in the dim light.
"What is it?" he asked, his tone tired and irritated.
Rehema sat up slowly, her voice steady despite the emotions roiling within her. "We need to talk."
Ali sighed heavily, leaning against the doorframe. "It's late, Rehema. Can't this wait until tomorrow?"
"No, it can't," she replied firmly. "Because tomorrow, you'll have another excuse. And the day after that, another."
He hesitated, then walked into the room and sat on the edge of the armchair opposite her. "Fine. Talk."
Rehema took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "Do you even want this marriage to work?"
Ali frowned. "Why would you even ask me that?"
"Because I don't feel like your wife anymore," she said bluntly. "I feel like... an afterthought. Someone you tolerate because it's convenient."
"That's not fair," Ali said, his voice rising. "I've done everything for this family. I work, I provide—"
"You provide money, yes," Rehema interrupted. "But what about your time? Your attention? Your respect?"
Ali rubbed his temples, frustration etched into his face. "Rehema, I'm tired. I can't keep having these same conversations with you."
"I'm tired too," she shot back, her voice trembling. "Tired of feeling like I'm not enough. Tired of wondering who you're with when you're not here. Tired of trying to fix something you clearly don't care about."
"You think I don't care?" Ali snapped, standing abruptly. "Do you know how much pressure I'm under? Work, family, you always nagging—"
"Don't you dare blame me for your choices," Rehema said, rising to her feet. "You chose to neglect this marriage. You chose to entertain other women. Don't put that on me."
Ali laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "You always have to be the victim, don't you? Always looking for someone to blame."
"And you always have to be the hero," Rehema retorted. "Always trying to justify your selfishness as some kind of noble sacrifice."
The room fell silent, the air heavy with unspoken truths.
"I don't know what you want from me, Rehema," Ali said finally, his voice quiet but cold. "I'm doing the best I can."
"Your best?" she repeated, tears brimming in her eyes. "Your best is coming home at midnight smelling like another woman? Your best is comparing me to people who have no place in this marriage? Your best is abandoning me when I need you most?"
Ali looked away, his jaw tightening.
"I deserve better," Rehema said softly, the tears finally spilling over. "I deserve a husband who sees me, who values me, who fights for me the way I've fought for you."
Ali's silence was deafening.
Rehema wiped her tears, her voice steadier now. "If you're not willing to be that husband, then at least have the decency to admit it. Stop pretending this is something it's not."
Ali finally met her gaze, his eyes filled with something she couldn't quite place—regret, anger, or maybe just exhaustion. "I never asked for this life to be easy," he said. "But I didn't think it would be this hard either."
Rehema nodded, her heart breaking all over again. "Neither did I."
She turned away, heading toward the bedroom. "Goodnight, Ali."
He didn't follow her.
---
"Sometimes, love isn't enough to sustain a relationship. Respect, effort, and accountability are just as important. Without them, love becomes a hollow word."