In the afternoon, Mehmet Ali found out about the fabrics. When he returned home, he didn’t shout.
That scared me even more. He stood at the entrance and looked at me with a silence that froze my hands.
“Where are the fabrics?” 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 intervene. “I told her to take them.” He looked at her just once, and she fell silent.
It was then that I understood this had nothing to do with the fabrics.
He was furious because I had done something without fearing him first.
A few minutes later, he ordered me to go with him. “Where to?” 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 could bring more shame than suffering because of him.
So I followed him. The path seemed endless. Behind us, I could still hear the distant laughter coming 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 with him. A sharp agricultural tool. My body understood before my mind could accept it.
I told myself he only wanted to scare me. I repeated to myself that no man would truly destroy his wife over two pieces of fabric.
I was wrong. When we reached the empty field, there was no one nearby.
No woman. No neighbor. No one who could stand between his rage and me.
He turned to me and asked: “Which hand did you use to take the fabrics?”
My mouth went dry. “The right one,” I whispered. The way he looked at my hand revealed everything to me.
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