Every time I wept from loneliness, I comforted myself by thinking of my husband and my three beautiful children enjoying the fruits of my labor.
“Five years old,” I breathed, the math cutting through my chest like a rusty blade. “You’ve been living as husband and wife in my house. While I was scrubbing floors, you were sleeping in my bed.”
“Amara, listen to me!” Kenneth finally found his feet, rushing forward and trying to grab my shoulders. “It wasn’t like that! You were gone for so long… a man has needs, and Chika was here helping with the children. It just happened! But we still respect you. Look at the house! Look at the farm! I managed everything just like you asked!”
“You managed nothing!” a sharp voice suddenly boomed from the hallway.
I turned around. Standing at the entrance of the kitchen were my two eldest children, now teenagers. My son, Obinna, who was only three when I left, was now eighteen. Next to him stood my seventeen-year-old daughter, Ada.
They didn’t look at Kenneth or Chika with respect. They looked at them with pure disgust.
“Mom?” Ada choked out, tears instantly streaming down her face. She ran past her father, throwing her arms around my neck. “Mom, you’re finally home! Please don’t let them lie to you!”
Obinna stepped forward, his fists clenched, his eyes locked on his father. “He didn’t manage anything, Mom. The moment you built this house eight years ago, he moved Auntie Chika in. They told us that if we ever told you the truth on the phone, they would stop paying our school fees and kick us out. They used your money to build Chika’s family a compound in the next village!”
