The night felt endless.
After Ngozi's call, Nneka couldn't move.
She sat on the sofa, staring at the door Olu had walked through earlier, half hoping he would return, half praying he wouldn't—because she wasn't sure her heart could survive seeing him after what she had just heard.
Hours passed.
The house was dark except for the dim bulb in the hallway.
Her tears had dried, but her body felt weak, like all her strength had leaked out with them.
Around 1:17 a.m., she heard the sound of a car outside.
Her heart squeezed.
Footsteps approached.
Keys jingled.
The door opened.
Olu walked in slowly, looking slightly drunk.
He didn't stumble, but his eyes were half-closed and his shirt was wrinkled—the same shirt he had left in, now carrying the faint smell of alcohol and perfume that didn't belong in their home.
He froze when he saw her sitting awake.
"Oh," he muttered, "you're still up?"
Still up?
Waiting for a husband who had left her broken?
Waiting for answers he never planned to give?
"Yes," she whispered. "I couldn't sleep."
He looked irritated, as if her pain inconvenienced him.
"For what now?" he asked, tossing his keys on the table.
Nneka swallowed hard.
Her voice felt small.
But she forced herself to ask:
"Olu… where were you?"
He laughed without humor.
"Is that a question or an interrogation?"
She looked down at her hands.
"I just… want you to talk to me. Tell me the truth."
He walked past her, heading toward the bedroom.
"I don't owe you explanations every time I step out," he muttered.
"Olu, please," she whispered, following him slowly. "I'm your wife. I deserve honesty."
He turned around sharply.
"My wife?" he repeated. "You keep saying that like it gives you the right to control me."
Nneka felt her throat tighten.
"I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to save our marriage."
He scoffed.
"There is nothing wrong with our marriage. You're just insecure."
She froze.
That word again.
Insecure.
He kept using it like a weapon.
As if her pain was something she invented.
As if her tears were imaginary.
"Olu… please," she whispered again. "If there's another woman… just tell me."
He clenched his fist at his side—the only sign of guilt she had seen all night.
Then he said the one sentence that shattered something inside her:
"Even if there was, it's because you don't keep me happy anymore."
Nneka stumbled back a little.
It felt like he had stabbed her with words.
"Don't cry," he snapped when he saw her expression. "Crying won't change anything."
She covered her mouth, the tears finally spilling again.
He brushed past her, entered the bedroom, and closed the door.
Not gently.
But with finality.
⸻
A Pillow Full of Tears
Nneka didn't follow him.
She didn't have the strength.
She sat on the living room floor, hugging her knees like a child, crying into the darkness.
She remembered their early days when Olu would chase her into the house jokingly, carry her to the bed, kiss her forehead, and promise:
"I will never let you cry because of me."
Those promises were now ghosts.
She cried until the sky began to lighten.
Until the early morning breeze crept in through the window.
Until her tears felt like a quiet goodbye to the girl she used to be.
⸻
When Morning Breaks Hard
At dawn, she entered the bedroom slowly.
Olu was already awake, dressing up for work as if nothing had happened.
As if their marriage wasn't hanging by a thread.
As if he hadn't destroyed her heart the night before.
She whispered, "Olu, can we please talk—"
He put on his wristwatch and said coldly:
"I'm late."
And without another word, he walked out of the room.
Walked out of the house.
Walked out of the conversation.
Walked out of her heart a little more.
The door shut behind him.
This time, it felt like an ending.
End of Chapter 7