The silence in the wake of the garden confrontation was a living thing, a thick, toxic fog that filled the Dared mansion. Mina had become a statue of quiet resolve, moving through the halls with a chilling, impersonal efficiency. She spoke only when necessary, her voice a monotone. She was a tenant waiting for her lease to expire, her emotional eviction already complete.
Adams, however, was drowning in the fog. The sight of Mina walking past him in the garden, the absolute nullity in her eyes, had shaken him more than any shouted argument. He had to fix this. He was the head of his family, wasn't he? It was his job to mediate, to bring peace.
His opportunity came two days later. He found Mina in their room, mechanically folding Trisha's tiny clothes into a neat pile. She didn't look up when he entered.
"Mina," he began, his voice too loud in the quiet room. "We can't go on like this."
She continued folding, her movements precise. "Like what?"
"This… this silence. This war with my family." He took a step closer, a peace offering in his hand—a cup of the ginger tea she liked. He'd had to ask Rakiya how to make it. "I spoke to my mother."
That made her pause. She looked at the tea, then at him, her expression unreadable. "Did you."
"Yes. And I spoke to Aisha." He puffed out his chest slightly, playing the mediator. "I told them… I told them that their comments about the playroom were… unhelpful. And I told my mother that her remark about you being 'overwrought' was… well, it was harsh."
Mina placed a tiny sock on the pile. "And what did they say?"
Adams shifted on his feet. "My mother said she only wants what's best for the family. That harmony is important. She feels… she feels you misinterpret her intentions. That she's trying to help." He rushed on, seeing her expression harden. "And Aisha… she apologized. Sort of. She said she didn't mean to upset you."
It was a lie. Aisha had rolled her eyes and said, "Fine, whatever, tell her I'm sorry she's so sensitive." His mother had sighed and said, "Adams, must we coddle her hysteria? She needs to develop a thicker skin if she wishes to be part of this family." But he couldn't tell Mina that. He was smoothing things over.
Mina picked up another tiny shirt. "So, the conclusion is that I misinterpreted their generosity, I'm too sensitive, and I'm hysterical. And you've agreed."
"What? No! That's not what I said!" he protested, frustration creeping into his voice. Why couldn't she see he was trying? "I'm telling you they're backing down! I'm telling you I stood up for you! Can't you just… take the win? Can't we just move on?"
"A win?" she repeated, the words flat and dead. "You call that a win? Adams, you just handed me their excuses wrapped in a pretty bow and called it an apology. You didn't stand up for me. You asked them to be a little quieter while they slowly smother me."
"That's not fair!" he snapped, his own patience fraying. The cup of tea felt foolish in his hand. "What do you want me to do, Mina? Start World War Three? Throw their charity back in their faces and let us be thrown out on the street? Is that what would prove my love to you? Total self-destruction?"
"I want you to see the truth!" she fired back, her icy composure finally cracking. She stood up, facing him. "I want you to hear what they're actually saying! I want you to stop translating their insults into 'concern' because it's easier for you to stomach! Your mother isn't trying to help, she's trying to control! Aisha isn't sorry, she's smug! And you… you're so terrified of upsetting them that you're asking me to just lie down and play dead to make your life more comfortable!"
Her words were lances, each one striking a nerve of truth he desperately wanted to ignore. His mediation was a performance, and she'd seen right through it.
"You think this is comfortable?" he roared, his own pain and humiliation exploding out of him. He slammed the cup down on the dresser, tea sloshing over the rim. "You think I enjoy this? Living in my childhood room, depending on my father's money, watching my wife and my mother tear each other apart? Every day in this house is a nightmare for me!"
There it was. His truth. It was about his pain. His humiliation.
The fight went out of Mina. She looked at him, and for the first time, she didn't see a coward or a traitor. She saw a broken, pathetic man, and that was somehow worse.
"I know it's a nightmare for you, Adams," she said, her voice quiet, filled with a devastating pity. "But you're not in it alone. I'm in it with you. Or I was. The difference is, your nightmare ends the moment you decide to make peace with your mother. My nightmare is the peace you're asking me to make."
He had no answer. Her words left him naked, stripped of all his excuses.
Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. Before either could answer, it opened. Hajiya Zainab stood there, her expression one of perfectly crafted concern.
"I heard raised voices," she said, her gaze sweeping from the spilled tea to Adams's anguished face to Mina's resigned one. Her eyes glittered with victory. She had heard everything. "Adams, dan na, are you alright? This stress is not good for your recovery."
She walked in and placed a hand on his arm, a gesture of maternal solidarity that excluded Mina completely. She looked at the spilled tea. "What is this mess? Rakiya can clean it." She turned her attention to Mina, her tone dripping with false benevolence. "Mina, my dear, you must try to be more careful. And perhaps… a little quieter. The whole house doesn't need to hear your marital squabbles. We are a family of dignity."
It was the final, masterful twist of the knife. She had reframed his failed attempt to defend his wife as a "marital squabble" that she was mediating. She had made herself the calm, dignified peacemaker and Mina the hysterical, messy problem.
Adams saw the trap. He saw the manipulation as clear as day. And in that moment, he had a choice. To finally, finally side with his wife against the blatant interference.
He opened his mouth.
And closed it.
The weight of his dependency, the fear of his mother's disapproval, was too heavy.
He looked at the floor. "Sorry, Mother," he mumbled.
Hajiya Zainab patted his arm. "It's alright, my son. Some things just cannot be fixed." She gave Mina a look that was pure, unadulterated triumph before gliding from the room, leaving the toxic silence behind her.
Adams couldn't bring himself to look at his wife. He had not only failed to mediate, he had handed his mother the ammunition to destroy them completely.
He heard a small, broken sound. When he finally forced himself to look up, Mina wasn't crying. She was smiling. A small, terrible, utterly hopeless smile.
"You see?" she whispered. "You see how it works?"
She didn't say another word. She simply turned, finished folding the last tiny shirt, and placed it in the drawer. The finality of the gesture was more devastating than any slammed door.
Adams stood alone in the middle of the room, the smell of spilled ginger tea—the symbol of his pathetic peace offering—filling the air. He had tried to make things better and had instead made everything infinitely worse. He had proven his wife's every accusation true.