So I followed him.
The road seemed endless. Behind us, I could still hear the distant laughter from the wedding. With every step, those voices grew fainter until only the wind, the dust, and the man walking beside me remained.
Then I saw what he was carrying.
A sharp farming tool.
My body understood before my mind could accept it. I told myself he only wanted to frighten me. I kept repeating to myself that no man would truly destroy his wife over two pieces of cloth.
I was wrong.
When we reached the empty field, there was no one nearby. No women. No neighbors. No one who could stand between his anger and me.
He turned to me and asked,
“Which hand did you use to take the cloth?”
My mouth went dry.
With my right,” I whispered.
The way he looked at my hand told me everything. He hadn’t taken me there to question me. He had taken me there to punish me.
