Monday morning came too quickly.
Aida replayed the conversation in her head. The calm in Nat's voice, the way he had spoken without urgency or demand. Aida lay awake long before the alarm rang, staring at the ceiling while the last echoes of Sunday's sermon lingered faintly in her chest. Love is patient. Love is kind. The words had felt heavier than usual. Nat's words to her " Choose yourself daily" stayed longer than she expected.
Her phone buzzed.
A reminder from work.
She exhaled slowly, then reached for the device and typed carefully.
Good morning. I won't be able to make it in today due to a family obligation. I'll be reachable if anything urgent comes up.
She read it twice before sending. Guilt pricked her chest, not because she was irresponsible, but because she hated explaining absences for things she hadn't chosen.
Julius shifted beside her.
"You're not going to work?" he asked, eyes still half-closed.
"No," she said. "Your mum wants to see us."
He opened his eyes then turned his head. "Oh, that's true"
Aida hesitated. "I just think… she could have told me earlier. She knows I work Mondays."
He scoffed softly. "You act like work is more important than family."
"That's not what I said."
"You never want to adjust," he said, sitting up. "Everything has to revolve around your schedule."
She swallowed. "I adjusted. I already wrote in."
"Good," he said shortly. "So don't start complaining."
She made her way to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and getting ready to start her day when Julius sighted her from the wardrobe mirror.
"That's what you're wearing?" he asked.
She glanced down at herself instinctively. A soft, knee-length dress. Simple. Respectful.
"Yes," she said. "We're just going to see your mum."
He scoffed. "Exactly. My mum."
She straightened. "What's wrong with it?"
He walked closer, circling her like a critic. "Look at how it hangs on you. No shape. You're not a teenager anymore, Aida."
Her throat tightened. "It's modest."
"It's lazy," he corrected. "And it makes you look… heavy."
The word landed harder than he intended—or maybe exactly as hard.
She inhaled slowly. "I like it."
He laughed under his breath. "Of course you do. You don't know how to present yourself."
She said nothing.
He moved to the wardrobe, already rifling through hangers. "If you're going to sit in front of my mother and her friends, at least look like someone I didn't settle for."
Her fingers curled into her palm.
"I didn't ask you to settle," she said quietly.
He turned sharply. "See? That tone again."
She looked at the floor.
He pulled out a fitted blouse and a skirt she hadn't worn in months. "Wear this. At least it shows you still have something worth looking at."
Something.
She swallowed. "It's tight."
"So?" He shrugged. "That's the point. You're my wife, not a sack of rice."
Her cheeks burned.
She went to the bedroom without another word and changed. The fabric clung where she wished it wouldn't. She avoided the mirror.
When she came out, he nodded, satisfied. "Better. Now you look… presentable."
She reached for her bag.
"Don't carry that one," he added. "It looks cheap."
"It's fine," she said softly.
He sighed dramatically. "Why do you always argue? Just do as you're told."
She switched bags.
In the car, he drove fast. Music low. Silence heavy. Constantly checking his phone.
She wanted to tell him to focus on the road but she held herself.
"Death would be better off than living miserably in this cage called marriage." She thought to herself. "Let him drive as carelessly as he wants to."
They finally arrived at his mother's house past 11am, the air was already thick with voices when they arrived. Two women sat in the living room, well-dressed, watchful. One smiled warmly at Aida. The other barely glanced at her.
His mother hugged Julius first.
"My son," she said proudly. Then, turning to Aida, her smile thinned. "You're late."
"We're sorry," Aida began.
Julius cut in. "She was taking too long to dress."
His mother hummed. "Hmm."
They sat.
Within minutes, Aida was asked to bring water. Then snacks. Then adjust chairs. Each request delivered politely, each one unnecessary.
One of the women—soft-spoken, eyes kind, finally said, "Let her sit. She must be tired."
His mother smiled tightly. "Oh, she's strong. Career women are always strong."
Aida smiled, lips stiff.
Julius leaned back. "She's used to giving orders. Doing chores should balance her."
"Yes, She's married eight years and still can't give us a grandchild. Let her work a bit. Perhaps it'll remind her of her… priorities."
The words cut deeper than any sword.
When the kitchen work was done, she didn't retreat to a corner or wait to be dismissed. Instead, she followed the hum of activity outside, where vendors were already setting up canopies and arranging tables for the evening event. She would rather help out than be in the same space as her mother in-law.
The compound buzzed with quiet urgency. Voices overlapping, crates dragged across the ground, cutlery clattering.
Aida stepped in. "Where should these go?" she asked, lifting a box of table cards. The caterer pointed east. She nodded and got to work.
She straightened tablecloths, held poles steady, counted chairs, fetched tape and water. Efficient, calm, practiced. Vendors thanked her, smiled, spoke to her as an equal.
By mid-afternoon, the sun dipped, casting long shadows. Strings of lights were tested, and the rich scent of food filled the air.
At 4:30 p.m., the first guests arrived.
Cars rolled in steadily, one after another. Laughter floated through the gates. Heels clicked against the pavement. Men in crisp shirts and women in flowing fabrics greeted one another with practiced ease. The once-open space slowly filled, voices rising, chairs scraping back, glasses clinking softly.
Aida watched, hands briefly wiped on a cloth, taking in the order she had helped create. She straightened, shoulders back, then moved inside, just another face in the crowd.
By eight, the event wound down. Chairs stacked, tables cleared, vendors packing. Aida helped, tying bags and folding tables, feet aching but steady.
"Thank you," one vendor said.
She nodded. "It's fine."
When she stepped back inside, her mother-in-law was waiting, seated stiffly, Julius beside her.
"You embarrassed this family today," the woman said flatly.
Aida frowned. "By helping?"
"Exactly," she snapped. "Running around like hired help. People were watching."
Julius scoffed. "You never know your place. You always do too much."
Aida lowered her eyes, the familiar thought settling in her chest: I really can't please these people.
The drive home was silent. Streetlights flashed past as Julius drove, jaw tight. No one spoke.
When they got home, Julius went straight to the bedroom. Aida removed her shoes, washed her face, changed quietly, she laid in the guest room, shadows from the chandelier stretching across the walls. Her chest still ached from the words, the stares, and the silent judgments of her mother-in-law. The echo of, "after eight years, still no child…" haunted her. Memories of her own prayers, her desperate hope, and her longing for children made the insult sting even more.
She slipped quietly to their bedroom. Julius turned to her, eyes tracing over her form, lingering over her thigh.
"I want you," he murmured.
"Can… can we do this tomorrow, I'm really tired from the work I did at your mother's place," she said softly, stepping back.
"Pleaa…"
He interrupted, voice firm, yet calm. "It's fine. I want this. Don't fight me." He said aggressively
Aida pressed her hands against the counter, heart hammering. She looked at him,
He ignored her. His hands were on her waist before she could move away. "No," he said lowly, tone leaving no room for refusal.
Her breath hitched as his touch pressed into her, the familiar sharpness of desire mixed with something darker. She closed her eyes, tried to remain still, but he traced over her thigh, the tension in the room suffocating and urgent.
"You're mine," he whispered, his teeth grazing her neck.
Aida's mind screamed, but her body betrayed her. Trembling, responding despite the fatigue, despite the memories of pain and humiliation.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps as she stayed silent, trying to withstand, trying to remember herself, but the weight of his insistence, the force of him, pushed her into a mix of fear, anger, and something she couldn't name.
The room was thick with desire, tension, and control—an intimacy she didn't want but couldn't fully resist.
and for the first time, she felt an almost tangible wall between them, not just physical, but the years of fear, of bruises, of quiet submission.
And she thought, silently, as his shadow fell over her reflection.