I told myself it was my anxiety. I told myself not to embarrass myself with suspicion, because suspicion can turn a wife into a policeman in her own house.
There was another small sign I didn’t understand.
Α young woman’s laughter in a call that ended too fast. Emeka claimed it was his cousin’s daughter, and he sounded irritated that I even asked.
That irritation sat inside me like a stone.
But I still swallowed it, because I didn’t want quarrel. I didn’t want the kind of marriage where every question becomes a fight.
The day of the thanksgiving came on a Saturday.
I woke early, opened my pharmacy, and tried to focus on customers, but my mind kept imagining Mama on a chair, smiling, healed.
By midday, I couldn’t hold it anymore.Something in me wanted to see the thanksgiving with my own eyes. It felt wrong to sponsor something big and not even show my face.
I closed the shop early and told my staff to handle the rest.
I packed my two children into the car and started the four-hour drive, telling myself it would be a sweet surprise.
The road was hot, dusty, and full of trucks.
My son complained. My daughter slept on my lap. I kept driving, thinking about how happy Emeka would be to see me there.
Αs we approached the village, the air changed.
The smell of wood smoke, the sound of distant talking, the way people stare at a city car like it’s a visiting celebrity.
Then I saw the SUVs.
Not one or two. Many. Parked along the road like a convoy. My first thought was that Mama’s thanksgiving had become a big community event.
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