Nearly six months after our wedding, we decided to visit my parents. I knew it would be a challenge, but I never imagined how difficult it would be. The moment we stepped through the door, my mother greeted us with a cold stare and words that sent a chill down my spine: “This is a working household, not a holiday.” Her tone held a warning, as if wed arrived not at my childhood home but some sort of forced labour camp.
My Emily, with her delicate hands and city refinement, suddenly seemed as fragile as a daisy in a storm. I felt her fingers tighten around mine as my mother ordered her to clean the fish. “William, shes your wife, not a servant!” I wanted to shout, but I stayed silent. Silent because I knew any protest would only fan the flames.
Those days in the village became a nightmare. Emily worked until late, her fingers trembling from the cold as she washed dishes with water from the well. I watched her bite her lip to keep from crying when my mother scolded her for laziness. “Youll never be good enough for my son!” echoed in my head like a curse. And I stood there, chained by invisible ties to the land where I was raised, helpless.
Our dinners were boiled potatoes and fish, prepared by Emily, but my mother refused to join us. She watched from the corner like a shadow, waiting for a mistake. At night, I heard Emily crying into her pillow. “Im sorry Im sorry for everything,” I whispered, but the words dissolved into the dark.
When we returned home, I vowed to tell my mother, “Never insult my wife again.” But she only laughed. “Have you forgotten who raised you? Who fed you when you were starving?” Her words cut deep, like a knife to the heart.
The next time we visited, I was ready to fight. My father had hurt his leg, so I had to tend to the cows. Emilys wellies rubbed her feet raw, and the rain turned the fields to mud. She stumbled after me, and I stayed quiet, knowing any kindness from me would bring more cruelty from my mother.
And thenthe lamb. Emily couldnt stand the smell, yet my mother cooked it every day on purpose. “Eat if you want to be part of this family!” she snapped when Emily pushed her plate away. I took my fork, stabbed a piece of meat, and flung it to the floor. “Never again,” I muttered, but it was only the beginning of the war.
Now, with Emily expecting our daughter, I wont take any risks. “Come alone if you want,” I told my mother over the phone. “But she stays here.” Her silence held a sea of resentment, but for the first time, my heart was calm. I held Emily close, and her warm hands reminded mesometimes you must protect your family, even from those who gave you life.
P.S. The next time my mother called, I turned off the phone. It hurt us both. But sometimes, pain is the only way to wake up.
