(Mina's POV)
The courtyard was a living tapestry of their new, cramped life, smelling richly of goat stew and woodsmoke, of early evening bustle and laughter that sometimes felt a little too loud. Children's voices rose and fell like the songbirds nesting in the eaves of the surrounding apartments, a chaotic chorus that was the soundtrack to Mina's days. She moved through it all with a practiced calm, her arms balancing a heavy tray of injera and food as she made her way to the long, scarred wooden table that dominated the shared space.
Chosen, a whirlwind of boundless energy, darted past her legs with a half-broken toy car, its plastic wheels rattling against the cracked concrete. Trisha, ever the serious one, trailed behind him, her schoolbag still slung over her small shoulder as if she'd just arrived from a world of sums and spelling tests. They were the anchors of her reality, the undeniable truths in a life that had become a careful performance.
And then there were the other children. Mariyam's children.
To the outside world-to the neighbors who nodded politely-they were family friends, fellow souls clinging together in the city's sprawl. To Mina, they were a daily exercise in willpower. She forced that convenient lie to take root each day, watering it with forced smiles and manufactured warmth. Because if she let herself peel it back, even for a second, if she looked too closely at the curve of a smile or the shade of an eye, she feared the entire fragile edifice of her world would show its cracks and crumble into dust.
"Careful with that plate, Zaid," Mina said, her voice a gentle melody as she swooped in to rescue a bowl of steaming soup before the little boy could topple it. His smile, when he looked up at her, was wide and unburdened, a perfect, heart-wrenching replica of the dimples Adam carried in his own cheeks. Her chest tightened at the resemblance, a familiar, painful squeeze beneath her breastbone.
"You're too good with them," Mariyam's voice purred from the shadowed doorway. She emerged into the courtyard's fading light, a simple, brightly colored scarf tied neatly around her head, her eyes sharp and assessing despite the softness of her smile. "They love you more than me, I think. They always run to you first."
Mina forced a light chuckle, the sound feeling thin in her own ears as she set the tray down with a soft thud. "Nonsense. Children's hearts are vast. They have more than enough love to give. And they always, always love their mothers most." It was a mantra she repeated to herself as often as she did to Mariyam.
Mariyam's gaze lingered on her, unreadable and heavy, before she bent gracefully to scoop Aisha-the girl with a head of wild, dark curls so like Mina's own Trisha-into her arms. "And yet, they run to you when they fall. They seek your comfort as if it were their birthright." The words were draped in a tone of light teasing, but they scraped against something raw and exposed inside Mina. They felt less like an observation and more like a subtle claim staked on her territory.
Mina busied herself with ladling stew into bowls, the rhythmic motion a small shield. She pretended not to notice the way Mariyam's children-his children, a treacherous voice in her head whispered-gravitated toward her, their small bodies orbiting her like planets drawn to a steady, dependable sun. It was a magnetism she never asked for and now didn't know how to refuse.
From his post in the doorway, a cup of cooling tea forgotten in his hand, Adams watched the scene unfold-a silent play where he was both audience and culprit. His wife, Mina, moved with a quiet, weary grace, setting food upon the table, ensuring everyone was cared for. His secret wife, Mariyam, leaned against the flaking paint of the doorframe, her smile too knowing, her ease in this space a constant, low-grade provocation. His heart twisted, a sickening corkscrew of guilt.
It had all seemed so manageable once, a equation of distance and discretion. One home for Mina, a life built on a foundation of respect and deep, genuine affection. Another for Mariyam, a world of indulgence and passion that existed in a separate, sealed compartment. But the city had grown expensive, excuses had grown thin, and the lines had blurred into this unbearable proximity. Now, the children-his children, from two different mothers-played together in the dust, their innocent camaraderie a jest from a fate that seemed to delight in mocking his arrogance.
A small hand tugged at his sleeve. "Papa, come play," Chosen demanded, his eyes bright with expectation. "My car needs a mechanic!"
Adams forced a smile onto his face, the expression feeling like a poorly fitted mask. He ruffled his son's hair, the fine strands a tactile reminder of the pure love he was jeopardizing. "Soon, my boy. Let Papa finish his tea."
His eyes, helpless, flicked back to Mina. She was laughing now at something Mariyam had said, the sound brittle but brave, a testament to her strength. Mariyam was teasing her about the seasoning of the stew, a domestic scene that should have been comforting but instead felt like a slow-acting poison. There was no anger in Mina's face, no shadow of suspicion-just a profound, unshakable trust. That trust sliced him deeper than any blade of anger ever could. It was the weight that was crushing him.
He remembered her words from the night they'd first moved into this tiny, shared apartment, her hand in his as they looked at the bare, unpromising walls: "We'll figure it out. Together." Her faith had been their anchor.
But if she knew the truth-if she could see that the woman she broke bread with was not a friend but the living, breathing embodiment of his hidden betrayal-would that sacred word, together, shatter into a million irreparable pieces?
Dinner was a symphony of controlled chaos, almost too lively to be truly joyful. Boisterous laughter clashed with the clatter of spoons against bowls. Children squabbled over the last piece of meat and reconciled in the space of a breath. Mariyam held court, her stories of market vendors and neighborhood gossip filling the silences with an easy, practiced charm that Mina could never emulate.
Mina played her part. She smiled, she nodded, she offered a quiet response where it was required-but a strange, cold heaviness had begun to press on her lungs, making each breath a conscious effort. It was something in the way Mariyam's eyes followed Adam when he thought no one was looking. It wasn't a casual glance; it was a flicker of deep, unspoken familiarity, a possessiveness that went far beyond the bounds of "just friends." It was the way her hand had lingered on his arm yesterday when passing a cup, a touch that spoke of a shared history.
She pushed the thought away, mentally chastising herself. Suspicion was a poison, and she would not drink it. Adam had given her a home when she had none, children who were her heart, and a stability she had craved after a lifetime of storms. Why would she risk ruining that blessed peace with the treacherous inventions of her own imagination? She was building cracks where none existed, fearing the collapse before the foundation had even been tested.
Still, when little Aisha, reaching for a piece of bread, called Adam "Baba" by a simple, childish accident, Mina's spoon froze midair. The sound was a small detonation in the room. The chatter died instantly, leaving a vacuum of silence that lasted only the briefest of heartbeats but felt like an eternity.
Mariyam's laugh was a little too sharp, a little too quick to cut the tension. "Oh, this silly girl!" she exclaimed, pulling Aisha onto her lap. "She calls everyone Baba these days! The postman, the shopkeeper-any man with a kind face is 'Baba' to her!"
The spell was broken. Adams chuckled, a strained sound. Trisha giggled. The moment passed. Mina forced the muscles in her face to form a smile, then a laugh that sounded foreign to her own ears. She picked up her spoon and continued eating, the flavorful stew now tasting like ash in her mouth.
But inside, something fundamental had shifted. A tiny, hairline fracture had appeared in the perfect, painstakingly painted picture of her life. And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that cracks, once started, have a way of spreading all on their own.
That night, long after the last child's breath had evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep, Adams sat awake in the dim, orange glow of the single kerosene lamp. The apartment was filled with the sounds of his family: the soft sigh of Trisha turning in her sleep, the faint whistle of Chosen's breath where he lay curled like a comma between him and Mina. Mina herself slept beside him, her body a warm, trusting line against his. One of her hands was curled protectively around Chosen's tiny foot, a gesture of such innate, maternal devotion that it made his throat ache.
He looked at her face, softened by sleep and shadow-this woman who had given him everything, who asked for so little and deserved the world. Her faith was a blanket she drew over their lives, and he was the thorn secretly tearing it from within.
Then his gaze drifted to the open window, to the shadows of the courtyard where the ghost of the evening's gathering still seemed to linger. He could almost smell it-a faint trace of Mariyam's jasmine perfume clinging to the night air, a scent that once signified desire but now smelled only of duplicity.
A whisper of guilt, cold and sharp, tore through him. It was no longer a vague unease but a physical presence in the room. He could almost hear his mother's voice, spectral and victorious, from all those years ago: "Secrets are like corpses in the basement, Adams. You can bury them deep, but they always rot. And eventually, everyone smells the decay."
He had always feared the if-if Mina ever found out. But as he watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, as he saw the absolute peace on the face of the son they shared, the question in his mind mutated, turning from a hypothetical fear into an impending sentence.
For the first time, he wondered not if the truth would ever claw its way into the light, but when. And the silence of the night offered him no answer but the frantic beating of his own guilty heart.