HE ADMITTED HE KNEW YOUR FACE BEFORE YOU EVER SPOKE-kybie

When Obinna comes out of the bedroom, he has the look of a man who has not slept either. The early light catches his face in a way that makes him look younger and more breakable than he did last night. You resent that softness in him because you feel none in yourself.

“I’m going to my mother’s,” you say.

He nods. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to explain anything to her?”

“She already thinks men are a disappointing species. You’d only be confirming her research.”

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth and disappears. At least he knows not to ask whether you’re joking.

He walks you to the door anyway. At the threshold, he says, “Eden… Adaeze… whichever name you want from me, I will use.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“My own,” you say at last. “Use my own.”

His eyes lower. “Adaeze.”

The sound of it hurts more than expected. Not because it is wrong. Because it is right.

Your mother lives across town in a building with flaking paint and neighbors who know too much about everyone’s business. She opens the door in a wrapper and headscarf, squints at your garment bag and overnight case, and says, “Well. Either the wedding night was terrible or you came to show off leftover cake.”

You burst into tears before answering.

That is how the first week of your marriage ends.

In your mother’s apartment, you become two people at once: the grown woman who has survived too much to be babied, and the daughter who still wants to crawl into a safer decade. She does not press for every detail immediately. She makes tea. She heats stew. She lets silence do its slow work. Only when your breathing evens out does she ask, “Did he hit you?”

“No.”

“Did he cheat?”