On our wedding day, we had nothing, weighed down by debt.
My husband, for the purpose of his wife and child, quietly accepted a path full of condescension: secretly sharing the bed of two of the town’s wealthiest women. In exchange, money streamed into our home without end. Within a single year, our leaning shack became a crimson-topped house, with a shiny new motorbike, and our youngest child could study and eat well.
Neighbors gazed at us with jealousy, while I carried both pride and sorrow. Only I knew that behind this “wealth” was a insulting price my husband silently endured.
And so it happened that, exactly one year later, that morning he left home as usual.
I cooked dinner and waited for him, from sunrise until noon.
When the clock struck twelve and he still had not returned, my heart sank and I asked the neighbors to help search for him. When they came back, I was stunned… My husband had been discovered in the mansion of one of those rich women. Rope burns marked his neck, his clothes were disheveled.
What happened next changed everything…
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