Chapter 31: Bound by Culture
A week after his unexpected visit, Mary's father returned.
This time, his voice was softer, his eyes more focused. He called her aside, away from her aunt's hearing, and said, "I want to take you home. Just for the holiday."
Mary's heart jumped. She had waited years for those words. The thought of sleeping in a different place—even just for a few days—felt like a breath of fresh air after years of holding it in.
But before she could answer, her aunt stepped outside, wiping her hands on her wrapper. "You know that's not how things are done," she said flatly, addressing him, not her.
He didn't argue. He only nodded slowly, as if remembering the rules of the world they lived in.
In their culture, when a man's wife dies and he has young daughters, the responsibility of raising them falls to her sisters—either elder or younger—until the girls are grown. It was meant to be a system of protection. Of continuity. Of family stepping in.
But for Mary, it hadn't felt like protection at all. It had felt like punishment.
Still, her father didn't fight it.
"I just want her to rest a bit," he said quietly. "To be with me. Even if it's just for a week."
There was a long pause before her aunt sighed and nodded.
"Just one week. She must return after that."
Mary didn't speak. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, her fingers gripping her dress. She wanted to ask: Why didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you take me when you saw I wasn't okay?
But instead, she whispered, "Yes, sir."
And that evening, for the first time in years, Mary packed a small bundle of clothes—not to sell, not to serve, but to go home.
It wasn't freedom yet. It wasn't a break from the law of tradition.
But it was something.
A moment of rest. A reminder that she still had a father.
Even if he didn't fight for her completely, he had not forgotten her entirely.
And Mary knew: even a small window of peace could mean everything.