The days that followed were eerily quiet. Ali and Rehema tiptoed around each other like strangers forced to share the same space. The once vibrant conversations had been replaced by muted exchanges about groceries and bills. The air was thick with tension, but neither wanted to be the first to break the silence.
Rehema spent most of her time in the kitchen, kneading dough and experimenting with new recipes she learned at her baking classes. The act of creating something, even as simple as bread, was her way of maintaining control in a world where everything else felt like it was slipping through her fingers.
It was late afternoon when Rehema's phone buzzed. Her aunt's name flashed on the screen.
"Hello, Auntie."
"Rehema, my dear, how are you holding up?" her aunt's warm, concerned voice asked.
Rehema hesitated. "I'm managing."
"Managing isn't thriving," her aunt said gently. "Come over tomorrow. I want to see you."
Rehema smiled faintly. Her aunt always had a way of knowing when she needed support. "I'll be there."
As she ended the call, Ali walked into the kitchen, his phone glued to his ear. He didn't acknowledge her as he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.
"No, no, I'll be there by seven," he said into the phone, his tone casual but laced with a familiarity that made Rehema's stomach churn. "Yeah, I can't wait to see you either."
Rehema clenched the counter to steady herself. The conversation ended, and Ali turned, startled to see her standing there.
"Who was that?" she asked, her voice calm but sharp.
Ali frowned. "It's none of your business."
"It is my business," she said, crossing her arms. "You're my husband."
"And I'm also an adult who doesn't need to report every phone call," he snapped.
Rehema's composure cracked. "Do you even hear yourself? You're acting like I'm some stranger asking intrusive questions. I'm your wife, Ali. Or have you forgotten that?"
Ali groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Here we go again. Can we not do this right now?"
"No, we can't keep sweeping everything under the rug," she retorted. "I'm tired of pretending everything is fine when it's not."
"What do you want from me, Rehema?" he said, throwing his hands up. "You're always accusing, always doubting. Maybe if you trusted me—"
"Trust?" she interrupted, laughing bitterly. "You've given me no reason to trust you, Ali. Coming home late, secretive phone calls, the perfume that's not mine—I'm not blind."
Ali's face darkened. "You're paranoid."
"And you're a liar," she fired back.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping dangerously low. "Be careful what you say, Rehema."
She held her ground, her voice unwavering. "Or what, Ali? You'll walk out again? Go ahead. It wouldn't be the first time."
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Ali's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
Rehema sank into a chair, her hands trembling. The fight left her drained, but her resolve was stronger than ever. She wouldn't let him break her spirit.
The Next Morning
Rehema arrived at her aunt's house, the familiar scent of spices and freshly brewed tea greeting her at the door. Her aunt, a tall, regal woman with kind eyes, pulled her into a tight embrace.
"You look tired," her aunt said, guiding her to the living room.
Rehema sighed. "It's been... difficult."
Her aunt poured her a cup of tea, sitting beside her. "Talk to me."
The words spilled out of Rehema like a dam breaking. She told her aunt about the late nights, the fights, and the constant feeling of being second-best.
Her aunt listened intently, her expression thoughtful. "Rehema, you're not responsible for his actions. But you are responsible for how you let them affect you."
"What does that mean?" Rehema asked, her voice tinged with frustration.
"It means you need to focus on yourself," her aunt explained. "Your happiness, your growth, your dreams. Don't let his shortcomings define your worth."
Rehema stared into her tea, her aunt's words echoing in her mind.
Later That Evening
Ali returned home late again. Rehema didn't bother waiting up. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her aunt's advice replaying in her head.
The door creaked open, and Ali slipped inside. He didn't say a word as he climbed into bed, his back turned to her.
Rehema closed her eyes, a single tear sliding down her cheek. She was done fighting for his attention. From now on, she would fight for herself.
---
"You can't force someone to value you, but you can choose to value yourself. Self-love is the foundation of true strength."