“Your mother gave them to me,” I replied. “For the bride’s room.”
His face changed.
“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.
