The silence in the wake of the ginger tea incident was the loudest sound Adams had ever heard. It wasn't an absence of noise; it was a presence, a heavy, suffocating blanket of disapproval that filled the vast Dared compound. He could feel it the moment he left the confines of his room, a palpable pressure that made the air itself difficult to breathe.
He was a man caught in a vise. On one side was his wife, a silent, wounded statue of defiance whose every glance accused him of betrayal. On the other was his mother, a queen in her own castle, whose every perfectly composed gesture radiate a cold, expectant fury, waiting for his allegiance.
He found himself avoiding both of them, which in the sprawling yet suddenly claustrophobic house, was nearly impossible. He took to lingering in the study long after his father had left, staring at stock market tickers on a screen he had no power to influence, the numbers a mocking reminder of his impotence.
It was in the study that his mother found him two days later. She entered without a sound, a vision of calm authority, and closed the double doors behind her. The soft click sounded like a verdict.
"Adams," she began, her voice not sharp, but layered with a profound disappointment that cut far deeper than anger. "We need to speak about the atmosphere in this house."
He didn't look up from the screen. "What about it, Mother?"
"It is becoming… toxic." She chose the word carefully, letting it hang in the air between them. "Your wife. Her resentment is a cloud over everything. It is affecting your father. It is affecting the staff. Her refusal to adapt, to show even a modicum of gratitude… it is seen as arrogance."
Adams finally turned to face her, his own frustration simmering. "She's trying, Mother. This is difficult for her. For us."
"Trying?" Hajiya Zainab's eyebrow arched infinitesimally. "Is trying to deliberately defy me in my own kitchen her form of effort? To challenge my authority in front of the help? That is not trying, Adams. That is declaring war on the very hand that feeds you both."
She walked closer, her perfume enveloping him, a scent that had always meant comfort and now smelled of judgment. "A man is the head of his household. It is his God-given duty to lead. To ensure harmony. Your father never would have allowed such discord under his roof. He would have corrected it immediately."
The comparison to his towering, successful father was a blade expertly twisted in his gut. His failure was not just financial or physical; it was moral. He was failing as a man, as a leader, in his mother's eyes.
"What would you have me do?" he asked, the question a surrender.
"Lead her," she said simply. "Make her understand the position she is in. The position you are both in. This stubbornness, this… quiet defiance… it must end. For the sake of this family's peace, she must bend. Or you must make her."
She left him then, with the weight of her expectation settling on his shoulders like a lead cloak.
He found Mina later that evening in the atrium, trying to read a book to a fidgety Trisha. The sight of them, a small island of innocence amidst the turmoil, should have filled him with protectiveness. Instead, it filled him with a desperate, irritable anxiety. They were the source of the conflict, the symbol of everything he couldn't control.
"We need to talk," he said, his voice coming out harsher than he intended.
Mina looked up, her guard instantly up. "About what?"
"About making this work," he said, gesturing vaguely around them. "About not making everything harder than it already is."
Her eyes narrowed. "What does that mean, Adams? Should I have drunk the Panadol to keep the peace?"
"It means maybe you could try a little harder to get along with my mother!" he snapped, the words bursting out of him. "Maybe you could smile and nod and not pick a fight over every little thing! Is that so impossible? Is your pride really more important than us having a roof over our heads?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he saw the devastation on her face. He wanted to claw them back, but it was too late.
"My pride?" she whispered, her voice trembling. She set the book down with deliberate slowness. "You think this is about pride? Adams, she told me my mother's remedy was a 'village' solution. She hides our photo album. She moves Trisha's chair because it doesn't meet her aesthetic standards. She is systematically erasing every piece of me, of us, that doesn't fit into her perfect world, and you want me to smile?"
"She's set in her ways! This is her house! We are guests here, Mina! Guests who can't pay our way!" he fired back, his own shame fueling his anger. "That comes with conditions! It comes with swallowing your damn pride and being grateful!"
"So that's what I am?" she asked, her voice dangerously calm now. "A guest? Not your wife. A beggar who should be grateful for any crumbs of respect she's thrown?"
"That's not what I said—"
"It's exactly what you said!" She stood up, her eyes blazing with a pain he hadn't seen since the hospital. "You're asking me to let her dismantle me, piece by piece, and thank her for the privilege. And you won't even stand in the doorway and say 'that's enough.' You just hide in here and then ask me why I'm not trying harder."
The truth of her words lacerated him. He had no defense. Because she was right. He was hiding. He was weak.
"What do you want from me, Mina?" he pleaded, his voice cracking, all the fight gone, leaving only a hollow desperation. "To start a war with my mother? To get us thrown out onto the street? Is that what will prove my love to you? Destroying the last option we have?"
"I want you to choose me!" she cried, the raw anguish in her voice finally breaking through. "I want you to look at her and say 'She is my wife. What you do to her, you do to me.' Just once, Adams. I don't need you to win. I just need you to fight."
The plea hung in the air between them, a chasm of unmet need and paralyzing fear.
He looked at her, at the tears streaking her face, at the fierce, desperate love in her eyes that was begging him to be the man she married. And then he thought of his mother's disappointed face, his father's resigned silence, the crushing weight of their charity.
He couldn't. The words wouldn't come. The man who could command boardrooms was gone. In his place was a boy, terrified of losing his mother's approval, terrified of the yawning abyss of total destitution.
He looked away.
It was the smallest of actions. A mere breaking of eye contact. But it was the most profound betrayal.
Mina made a small, choked sound. She didn't say another word. She simply picked up Trisha, her movements mechanical, and walked past him out of the atrium.
Adams stood alone, the silence returning, thicker and heavier than before. He was torn, yes. But in that moment, he had made his choice. He had chosen the path of least resistance. He had chosen peace with his mother over solidarity with his wife.
And as the crushing weight of his cowardice settled on him, he knew the cold war was over. He had surrendered. And the cost, he feared with a dread that turned his blood to ice, would be everything.