The Return Home

The soft clatter of utensils and movement in the living room dragged me out of a shallow sleep.

I flung the duvet off and sat up, still in the clothes I had worn the night before. My fingers groped beneath the pillow for my phone. One tap lit the screen — 8:45. I remembered checking the time in the dead of night. I had only slept when exhaustion finally overpowered me around five.

I rose and stepped into the living room — it screamed his absence. Then I saw them: the documents I had tossed on the table. His signature stared back at me like a cruel reminder.

“Madam… your breakfast is ready. You ate nothing last night. I made this special.”

My maid’s voice was soft and hesitant. She had noticed something was wrong and feared that anything louder might shatter what was left of me. She carried a platter of omelette and set it gently on the table.

Food was the least of my concerns. My chest ached for something else — someone to talk to, someone who could feel the storm raging inside me.

My mother came to mind.

She had played a pivotal role in ensuring that I married Tom. She should be the first to know how vicious he had turned out to be.

Without responding to the maid, I turned and walked back to the bedroom. I peeled off the stale clothes from the night before, tied a towel around my chest, and stepped into the shower. Hot water hit my skin, but it didn’t wash anything away.

Minutes later, I slid into the driver’s seat of the black Prado Tom had abandoned in the driveway. I turned the key and eased out of the compound onto the tarmac with deliberate calm.

At the gas station, I rolled down the window and said, “Full tank.” The attendant obliged. I paid with my credit card and drove off.

I was going to Nakuru.

Before the wedding, Tom’s parents had gifted my parents a parcel of land. Later, Tom built a mansion there — all part of the bride price. My parents had recently moved in, but I had never been there myself.

I arrived later that afternoon. It had been an eight-hour drive.

My younger sister must have heard the car and came running to open the gate. She had grown so tall and beautiful.

As I entered, I took in the sight of the luxurious house — a two-story building resting proudly on two acres of land. If my mother had been wrong to push me into a marriage that was bound to fail, she had at least been right about the fortune it brought to the family. They had prospered beautifully.

My mother was already outside waiting. The moment I stepped out of the car, she pulled me into a tight, lingering hug.

“What a pleasant surprise!” she exclaimed, excitement bubbling in her voice.

“Come in,” she said, leading the way to the house. The living room was elegantly furnished — top-notch pieces that made me wonder if Tom had had a hand in it too.

“Make yourself comfortable. You must be very tired. But wait—this is your first time here. Let me show you the house. Your husband’s people were so generous. Isn’t it big? Your father and I never dreamed of anything like this,” she said, sweeping a hand toward the furniture.

“This is the living room. Come, let me show you the rest!” She led me from room to room, all the way upstairs. I followed in silence, my mind elsewhere.

We came back to the living room.

“Now you can relax and wait for lunch. It’ll only take about ten minutes,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

And as she had promised, she soon placed a plate of rice on the table. Then she took a hot pot from the cupboard and brought it over. When she opened it, a delicious aroma filled the room — beef stew. She took a serving spoon and scooped a generous portion, placing it neatly on top of the rice.

“We had just eaten when you came in,” she said. “So enjoy your lunch.”

I hadn’t regained my appetite, but I didn’t want to offend her. The food was tasty, and somehow I finished the whole plate.

I pushed the plate aside and sat back quietly. It was time to break the news.

My mother had already sensed it — my distant eyes, my restrained smile. She folded her arms and waited.

“Mum, I don’t even know where to start,” I began, my voice trembling. “Tom has left.”

Her brows knitted. “What do you mean?”

“It’s over between us,” I said, fighting back tears. “He’s filed for divorce. Turns out the wife he wanted was nothing like me.”

She froze, stunned. This was only the third year of our marriage.

“Mum, I tried my best,” I went on, my voice cracking. “I loved him. I did everything to keep our home together. I begged him to tell me what was wrong, but he wouldn’t.”

Her eyes softened. She rose from her chair and wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight.

“I’m so sorry, Sharon,” she whispered. “I never knew you’d end up like this. It hurts me to see you in so much pain. I know how it feels — but believe me, all is well. Your world is not falling apart.”

Her comforting words did little to stop the pain twisting in my chest.

Just then, faint rustling and footsteps on the porch distracted us. Our eyes flew to the door. It opened, and my father appeared, closing it softly behind him.

I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and tried to compose myself.

He looked at me and instantly knew I had been crying. His expression hardened with concern.

“You’re here?” he said flatly.

I rose, took his hand, and shook it without a word.

“You don’t seem okay. What’s going on?” he asked.

“Sharon broke up with her husband yesterday,” my mother said quietly.

Silence fell between us, heavy and unbroken.

He froze, the words hitting him like a blow. For a long moment, he just stared at me, unable to speak.