The next few hours were nothing but a blur of sweat, muttered curses, and aching muscles. Amy's arms trembled as she pushed the buggy through the crowded market aisles, the wheels squeaking like a protest at every turn. Balancing the groceries inside the buggy's storage compartment instead of a basket was clumsy work, and every time she thought she had arranged things neatly, a yam or bunch of tomatoes would roll dangerously close to falling.
"Stay put, you stubborn thing," she muttered, nudging a cabbage back in place with her elbow.
Her back screamed at her as she leaned awkwardly, the weight of her body making even the smallest bend feel like she was dragging mountains. Then, inevitably, one of the vegetables slipped out—a ripe red bell pepper bouncing across the floor.
"Ah, no, not again," she groaned. She bent slightly, gritting her teeth, but the strain of bending deeper tightened her chest. Her knees wobbled, threatening to give way.
Just as she thought she'd have to leave the pepper behind, a hand reached out smoothly and picked it up. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, bent with effortless grace and handed it to her. His skin brushed hers lightly—a fleeting contact, yet it sent a ripple through her. The faint, warm scent of cedarwood laced with vanilla clung to him, an oddly comforting fragrance that made her pause.
"Than—" she began, lifting her head.
But before she could finish, he was gone. She blinked. One second he was standing right there, and the next, he was turning into the next aisle. She tugged the buggy forward quickly, her heart beating with some inexplicable urgency to at least thank him properly. But when she reached the corner, he wasn't there. No trace. It was as if he had evaporated into the shelves.
She sighed heavily. "Strange," she muttered, pressing a palm to her chest before giving up and dragging the buggy to the counter.
By the time she paid and returned home, it was already close to 2 p.m. The walls of the house seemed to close in on her the moment she entered—too many voices, too much demand, and absolutely no room for her exhaustion. She barely had time to bathe and feed the twins before she was herded into the kitchen with instructions barked at her like she was hired help.
Amara's voice rang sharp and commanding. "vegetable soup, stewed rice, fried meat, and white soup. And hurry, we don't have all day."
Mary and Nneka lingered in the doorway, but Amara dismissed them with a wave. "No, no, out. Let her do it. She should be useful for once."
And so, Amy was left alone with the pots, the endless chopping, the sizzling, and the pounding, her body already trembling with exhaustion. Her swollen eye throbbed with every movement, a painful reminder of the toy one of the twins had thrown at her face earlier. Her stomach gnawed painfully at itself—she hadn't eaten since last night, and even then, barely anything. And the food she had prepared for herself was gone, the pot wiped clean by a family that cared little for her well-being.
Her hands shook as she sliced onions. She couldn't go on like this without at least something to eat. Quietly, she pulled out cereal, milk, and honey, mixing them quickly with water. The sight of the swelling flakes, the sweet smell rising, made her sigh in relief. She sat on a low stool, eager to shovel the first spoon into her mouth.
That was when Onyinye and Joy sashayed into the kitchen, joined at the hip as usual. They froze dramatically upon seeing her eat.
"Oh my God," Onyinye gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Sister-in-law, seriously? You've not even dropped your bag properly, and you're already stuffing your mouth?"
Joy snorted, her eyes scanning Amy up and down with obvious disdain. "And she wonders why she's dragging all that fat around. No wonder she can barely move without puffing like a generator."
Amy swallowed slowly, ignoring them. She'd long decided silence was her best shield.
But Onyinye wasn't finished. She leaned against the counter, voice laced with venom. "Do you not feel embarrassed? Look at you. You used to be sexy—shapely, radiant. Now? My brother is a top company chairman, and he can't even show you to his colleagues' wives. You're an eyesore. Honestly, for everyone's sanity, why don't you just pack your things and leave?"
Joy chimed in gleefully, "Exactly! He deserves someone who matches his status. Not…" she waved a hand dismissively, "this."
Amy's hand tightened around the spoon. Her lips pressed together so hard they nearly bled, but she didn't say a word.
Inside, however, their words sliced deep. Not because they were true—her weight gain had nothing to do with greed.
Amy's body froze, a spoonful of cereal halfway to her mouth. They were right, of course, about the weight gain, but their reasoning was a bitter lie. Her weight wasn't from gluttony, but a postpartum struggle, a medical condition that had slowly and relentlessly consumed her body and her health after the birth of her twins. But they wouldn't know that. They didn't care to.
She thought of her husband. Their words held a sliver of truth. Bem had once looked at her with a light in his eyes that had faded to a cold indifference. When he had first met her, he saw a future model, a woman of grace and beauty. She had been shy, reserved, but he had pushed her, encouraged her. When she finally agreed, the positive pregnancy test changed everything. They had married quickly, before the baby was born. But she had lost the child, and her world had shattered. A deep, consuming depression set in. In the darkness, her husband and his family had been her rock, their kindness a beacon of light in her grief. But that light had dimmed. It had vanished completely when she gave birth to the twins and her body changed.
Her husband had changed, too. He had taken a job as the chairman of a huge company, and with his newfound success came an emotional distance she couldn't bridge. He stopped sharing a bed with her, stopped touching her. He came home late, his face a mask of exhaustion and indifference. The money still flowed, a monthly deposit that felt more like a severance package than an act of love. He spoke to her in single words, sometimes going weeks without saying anything at all. She barely saw him, his business trips a perpetual excuse to be away.
But even through the coldness, Amy couldn't hate him. He was her first love, the only man she had ever known, the man who had once treated her like a queen. She made excuses for him, telling herself that his workload was too much, that he was stressed, that he still worried about her in his own silent way. She couldn't bring herself to face a world without him, a world that felt even colder and more alien than the one she was currently in.
"Look at her ignoring us like we are invincible," Onyinye scoffed.
Amy's new strategy was simple: absolute silence. She had learned the hard way that anything she said would be twisted and used against her. Joy, in particular, was a master manipulator, always trying to provoke her into a fit of rage she could record and edit to frame Amy as the villain. But Amy had learned to play the game, too. She had stopped giving them the pleasure of her anger. While they thought they were tormenting her, she was silently collecting evidence, her phone a constant recorder, a silent witness to their cruelty. They could play their little games, but she was building her own case.
She hadn't told her husband about the abuse because the family monitored her. She didn't know how, but she knew. Every call she made, every text she sent, was an open book to them. They would intercept her calls, snatching the phone from her hand, telling him she was being too needy, that he should focus on work and not be bothered.
Amy finished her cereal, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond them. She went about her cooking, a flurry of activity as she tuned out their taunts.
"Look at her dragging that body of hers. Seriously, so embarrassing to watch." Joy's voice was a theatrical whisper.
"I feel so sorry just looking at her. I mean, she's my age, but she looks older than Grandma."
They continued their cruel monologue, their voices a persistent hum of negativity, but Amy had built a wall around her soul. She had developed a thick skin, a resilience born of years of abuse. She moved from the stove to the sink, from the spice rack to the cutting board, her hands working tirelessly while her mind was elsewhere.
She wasn't sure how long she had been in the kitchen when Amarachi burst through the door, a frantic look on her face. "Ha! Jesus Christ! You haven't finished since? What are you cooking? Stone?" She rushed to the stove.
Before Amy could respond, Amara shoved her aside roughly, nearly tipping the frying pan. "Move!" She barked orders at Onyinye and Joy. "Start serving the food. Quickly!"
The two scurried around, their giggles sharp as knives. Amy held her breath, focusing only on the hiss of the oil, the smell of fried meat.
They immediately complied, pushing past Amy to grab plates and bowls, their movements clumsy and rushed. Amarachi supervised, barking orders like a deranged general. "You stay here and finish up once you are done! Stay here till Ugo is gone. I don't want you to scare him with your disgusting face."
Amy felt a familiar heat of frustration rising in her chest. She took a deep breath, mentally waving off the insult. She could handle the personal attacks, but what she said next was not for her, but for her children.
"Sister-in-law," she said, her voice strained but firm, "my children are upstairs. They'll cry if they don't see me. Passing through the dining is the only way to get upstairs. I can't stay here because I don't know how long your visitor is here for. I cannot leave my children unattended."
A sneer twisted Amarachi's lips. "Which children? Those runts that only run around and can't even speak yet despite their age. Are those things what you call children?"
This was her husband's house, a house she had helped pay for. They could treat her like a squatter, but they would not, under any circumstances, insult her children. They were her life, the one beautiful thing to come out of this miserable existence.
So the words struck like whips. For a moment, silence stretched, suffocating.
But something inside Amy snapped. Her exhaustion, her grief, her love for her twins—all coiled together into a fire that burned through her veins.
She turned fully, her eyes locking onto Amara's. She stepped forward, her voice dangerously low, each word deliberate.
Amy's stare was unwavering, her eyes no longer sad or exhausted, but a fierce, unrelenting fire. They say when you push someone hard enough, they'll break. But when you push someone too hard, they push back. Amy walked towards her, her steps purposeful and without fear. Amarachi stumbled back, a look of genuine shock on her face.
Amy stopped, her face just inches from Amarachi's, her voice a dangerous, low hiss. "Sister-in-law, don't think for a second that just because I let your family bully me, you can forget who and what you are in this house. You say I need to know my place?" She scoffed, a single, bitter sound. "I am still my husband's wife and the madam of this house. Don't go too far. I can accept any nonsense you throw my way, but don't you dare," she turned her head to ensure Amarachi was looking her in the eye, "sling mud at my babies. That, I will not stand."
Amarachi raised her hand to strike, but her arm froze mid-air. As Amy pulled the dish towel from her waistband, and threw it on the counter with a flourish. "I think I am done here. You can take care of the remaining things here."
She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving a speechless Amarachi stewing in a furious silence. Her hands trembled, her eyes red with rage. "Amy, how dare you! How dare you speak to me in that manner?! I promise you, you'll surely pay for this." The threat was a venomous whisper, but Amy was already gone, her steps lighter than they had been in years.