The air in the house was suffocating. Every room seemed to echo with the weight of unsaid words, and Rehema could feel herself drowning in the silence. For days, she and Ali had exchanged only the most basic of pleasantries, if they spoke at all.
She couldn't sleep that night. The ceiling above her seemed endless, and the hum of the ceiling fan did little to distract her. Finally, she decided to get up. Maybe a cup of tea would calm her restless mind.
As she walked past the living room, she noticed a faint glow coming from Ali's phone, left carelessly on the table. Her steps faltered. A part of her wanted to ignore it, to keep walking and pretend she hadn't seen it.
But another part of her—the part that had been crushed under the weight of doubt and humiliation—couldn't resist.
She picked up the phone, her hands trembling. Ali never shared his password, but tonight, it wasn't needed. The phone was unlocked.
"Just thinking about you makes my day better. Can't wait to see you again."
The message stared back at her, mocking her.
Rehema scrolled further, each new text a dagger to her chest. There were photos too—laughing selfies, shared meals, intimate moments that should've belonged to her and Ali but didn't.
Her vision blurred as tears spilled down her cheeks. She set the phone down as if it burned her, backing away from it like it might attack.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She spun around, and there he was, standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing?" Ali's voice was cold, but there was an edge of panic to it.
Rehema didn't answer. She couldn't. The lump in her throat was too big, and the pain in her chest too raw.
"Rehema, I asked you a question," he said, stepping closer.
"I could ask you the same," she finally managed, her voice breaking. "Who is she, Ali?"
Ali froze. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't lie to me!" she yelled, the dam breaking. "I saw the messages. The pictures. I saw everything!"
Ali's face hardened. "You had no right to go through my phone."
"And you had no right to betray me!" she fired back.
They stood there, glaring at each other, the silence between them deafening.
"It's not what you think," he said finally, his voice softening.
"Then what is it, Ali?" Rehema demanded. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like what I think."
Ali ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze. "It's complicated."
"Complicated?" she repeated, laughing bitterly. "No, Ali, it's simple. You chose someone else. Over me. Over us."
"I didn't choose anyone," he snapped.
Rehema shook her head. "You already did the moment you sent that first message. The moment you let her into our lives."
The next morning, Rehema sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the previous night still heavy on her shoulders. She had barely slept, her mind replaying their fight on a loop.
Ali had left early, without a word. That was becoming a habit of his—leaving her to pick up the pieces while he escaped the consequences.
Her phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. It was her aunt.
"Good morning, Auntie," she said, her voice weak.
"Rehema, you sound tired," her aunt noted.
"I didn't sleep well," Rehema admitted.
"Come over today," her aunt insisted. "You need a break."
Rehema hesitated. She didn't want to burden her aunt with her problems, but she also didn't want to spend another day alone in the house, suffocating under the weight of her pain.
"I'll be there," she said finally.
At her aunt's House, her aunt greeted her with open arms, ushering her into the kitchen where the smell of freshly baked bread filled the air.
"Sit," her aunt said, pouring her a cup of tea. "Tell me what's on your mind."
Rehema didn't hold back this time. She told her aunt everything, from the texts to the fight to the emptiness she felt in her marriage.
Her aunt listened quietly, her expression a mix of anger and sadness.
"You deserve better than this, Rehema," she said finally. "But more importantly, you need to believe that you deserve better."
"I don't know how," Rehema admitted.
"You start by taking care of yourself," her aunt said firmly. "Your happiness doesn't depend on Ali. It depends on you. Focus on your dreams, your passions. Build a life for yourself, not for him."
Her aunt's words were a lifeline, pulling her out of the darkness she had been drowning in.
When Ali came home that evening, Rehema was in the kitchen, icing a batch of cupcakes. She didn't look up when he walked in.
"Rehema," he said cautiously.
"What?" she asked, her tone cold.
"I wanted to talk," he said, leaning against the counter.
"I'm listening," she said, still not looking at him.
"I'm sorry," he said after a long pause.
Rehema set down the icing bag and finally met his gaze. "Sorry for what, Ali? For lying? For cheating? For breaking our marriage? Be specific."
Ali sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything," she said, turning back to her cupcakes.
Ali stared at her for a moment before walking away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
---
"Sometimes, the apology you want isn't the one you'll get. But forgiveness isn't for them—it's for you, to free yourself from their chains."