Chapter 37: Taken Again
When Monica married and left their father's house, Mary was once again caught in the web of tradition.
She had just begun to feel safe. Her room at her father's house had become a haven, and Monica's presence gave her peace. But the moment Monica stepped into her husband's home, people in the community began whispering.
"The girl can't stay there alone."
"She must return to her mother's sister."
"It's our way. You know the tradition."
And just like that, Mary was sent back to the very place she had once begged to escape—her aunt's house.
No one asked how she felt. No one considered her tears. Tradition was louder than truth.
Her aunt didn't hide her disappointment when Mary returned. She said nothing at first, only looked at her with a blank face and gestured toward the kitchen.
The silence was louder than any insult.
Mary's heart sank, but she didn't cry. She had grown stronger now—more aware, more watchful. Yet inside, she grieved.
Was love always temporary?
Was peace something she could only borrow?
The chores returned. The same harsh tone. The same quiet neglect. But Mary was no longer the helpless girl she once was. She carried with her the memory of kindness, of a sister who loved her, of a father who had tried.
And then, one morning, something shifted.
Her aunt's husband came home.
He had been away for years, stationed in Libya, fighting in a distant war. Now, he had returned—older, quieter, and freshly posted back to Taraba State.
At first, he barely noticed her. But as days passed, he began to see the cracks—the too-thin frame, the faded clothes, the distant eyes. Mary never complained, but her silence spoke volumes.
He began asking questions.
"Who pays your school fees?"
Mary didn't answer.
"Do you eat before going to school?"
Still silence.
But in that silence, he saw enough.
He said nothing to his wife, but something in him stirred.
Mary didn't know it yet, but her return to this house—though painful—would become the beginning of something unexpected.
She had been taken again by tradition.
But fate had quietly planted someone who might finally see her.
Not as a burden.
But as a child who deserved more.