Despite the cool air from the air conditioner, which filled the room, it did little to ease the heat rising in Purple's chest. Sweat clung to her forehead, and her palms were damp.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, then looked up sharply from where she sat on the edge of the bed.
"Babe, I'm not going with you to see another doctor," she said, her voice trembling slightly, though she tried to keep it even.
"We've already seen a specialist. I'm on medication. What more do you want?"
Abiola, standing near the window with his hands on his phone, turned slowly to face her. His expression was calm, almost too calm.
"You've been saying the same thing every time I mention it," he replied.
"Why are you so against seeing this new doctor? He's not just any doctor; he was recommended by Clinton. He just got back from the States."
Purple shook her head, frustration bubbling over.
"Why are these outsiders constantly interfering in our lives? Why won't they let me have peace in my own home? Everything revolves around the child, a child, any child. Can't we just breathe for once?"
"Please, Purple," Abiola said, raising his hands to calm her, "just lower your voice. I understand you're upset, but this isn't how to handle it. Stop raising your voice, please."
"No, Abiola," she snapped, standing up now.
"You don't understand. You think you do, but you don't. Do you even realize how exhausting it is to be under a microscope all the time? I'm tired."
He hesitated. "I still think we should go. I already told my mother about it, and you know how she gets. She won't take it lightly if she hears you refused."
Purple was flabbergasted hearing that. For a moment, time seemed to pause, her heart thudding in her chest.
"Wait… what?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You told your mother? And now, because she won't like hearing that I said no, I must go?"
Abiola shifted uncomfortably.
"Hey, Sweetie, it's not like that…"
"Oh, it is exactly like that," she snapped. Her voice grew louder, quivering with rage.
"So your mother makes the final decisions now? In my life? In my home?"
She walked slowly around the room, fists clenched at her sides. She finally stopped in front of him, her eyes blazing with intensity.
"Tell me, Abiola," she said, almost in a whisper, "am I married to you or your mother? Because I'm honestly confused at this point."
The room fell into silence. Abiola stood frozen, lips pressed into a tight line. He hated confrontations like this. He hated this tension in his own home, the place that was supposed to be his refuge.
He glanced away, then walked over to the wardrobe, pulled out his house slippers, and quietly slid them on. Without saying a word, he hissed and began heading toward the bedroom door.
Purple stared at him in disbelief.
"You're walking away? Just like that?" Her voice cracked.
"I asked you a question, Abiola. I am talking to you!"
He didn't make any attempt to stop. Purple stormed after him, heart pounding, her breathing uneven.
Abiola walked down the corridor slowly, each step increasing faster than the previous. He wants to vanish from his nagging wife. When he reached the living room, he shut and locked the door behind him.
He walked and sank into the leather couch with a long sigh, leaned forward, dropped his phone on the sofa, and buried his face in his palms.
His heart was heavy, as he hated how things had escalated again. This wasn't the home he had envisioned when he slipped the ring on Purple's finger. It wasn't the laughter-filled haven he had dreamed about when they exchanged vows. Instead, it was becoming a battlefield, a quiet war of tears, resentment, and unspoken expectations.
He sat in silence, trying to collect his thoughts. The sound of the wife banging on the door only made the silence more deafening. Why did it always come back to this?
His phone beeped, he reached for his phone, and stared at the screen. There were missed calls from his mother. His mother's voice had been in his ears all evening; they had spoken nearly forty minutes, while he was driving back from work. He clicked on the new texts from his mother.
"Don't forget what I told you. She should see the new doctor. You can't waste your youth waiting forever."
He rubbed his forehead. One thing he was sure of was that she meant well. She always did. But her "well-meaning" words were fast becoming poison in his marriage.
Abiola loved his mother. She had raised him and his elder sisters alone after his father died, sacrificed everything, and built him into the man he was. But now, he was torn between two women, one who gave him life, and one he had chosen to share his life with.
"God," he muttered under his breath.
"Why is this so hard?"
He leaned back against the cushion and stared up at the pop ceiling. Purple had every right to be upset. He could see that. The pressure, the scrutiny, and the constant suggestions it was draining for both of them, but it landed heavier on her. She was the one being judged, whispered about, and pitied.
He remembered the look in her eyes when she asked,
"Am I married to your mother or you?"
It hurt. Because deep down, he didn't have a clear answer anymore. She had PCOS, and that wasn't her fault. And she was on medication, doing her part, trying her best.
But time and family didn't always understand "trying." They only understood the results.
Abiola exhaled sharply and stood up.
He stretches himself and lies back on the couch, ready to spend the night there.