That afternoon, Mehmet Ali found out about the fabric.
When he came home, he didn’t shout. That frightened me even more. He stood in the doorway and looked at me with a silence that made my hands go cold.
“Where are the cloths?” he asked.
“Your mother gave them to me,” I replied. “For the bride’s room.”
His face changed.
“My mother doesn’t decide what leaves my house.”
My mother-in-law tried to step in.
“I told her to take them.”
He looked at her only once, and she fell silent.
That was when I realized it had nothing to do with the fabric. He was furious because I had done something without fearing him first.
A few minutes later, he ordered me to come with him.
“Where?” I asked.
“To the field.”
I wanted to refuse. I wanted to run back to the wedding house, where there were women, voices, and witnesses. But I was a young wife in a village where women were taught that disobeying their husband brought more shame than suffering because of him.
