“Ada…” His voice cracked.

I tried to speak but nothing came out at first. My throat felt dry and tight. When the words finally pushed through, they came out sharp and broken.

“Chinedu, what is this? What are you doing?”

He stayed on his knees, the photograph still in his hands. He didn’t try to hide it. That somehow made it worse.

“It is not what you think,” he said quietly.

Not what I think? My own husband kissing my dead sister’s picture like a lover while I was out trying to sell provisions to feed us. How many other nights had this been happening? How many times had I come back tired from the market, warmed his food, and gone to sleep thinking everything was fine?

My mind started spinning. Did they have something together before she died? Was that why he agreed to marry me so quickly after her burial? Was I just the replacement? The younger sister who looked a little like her but could never be her?