That evening, I walked into the compound tired and dusty from work. As I reached the door, I froze when I heard my wife’s voice from inside. She was laughing softly, and her words pierced me like a knife. “Weka yote babe, hii yote ni yako.” For a moment, I could not breathe. Then I heard the clatter of plates. My own father was inside.

I stood still, anger boiling, shame rising. My mind raced to the worst. Was my wife cheating on me with my father? I pushed the door gently and peeped. What I saw left me confused. She was serving him food. A big plate, full and steaming, the kind I had not seen on our table for weeks. My father smiled widely as if he were the king of the house.

I went silent. It was not infidelity of the body, but it felt like betrayal of the heart. My wife had stopped cooking with love for me. She reserved it for my father. I had been doing the shopping. I had been carrying heavy bags of flour, rice, and meat. Yet somehow, the good meals only came out when I was away. To read more Click here.