Saving Idhil

The atmosphere in the living room was heavy. There was a stench of fear in Idhil’s eyes—putrid, clinging. I felt her loyalty shifting, and it pained me. My husband was calm and collected, while within me, the betrayal curdled like spoiled milk.

“Idhil,” I said. “I hosted you because you are my sister! Look at your face. Look what he’s done to you.”

I pleaded, but deep down, we all heard it—especially my husband—the tone in my voice.

“Amina,” he said quietly. “It’s better you don’t say anything else.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

He gave me a stare that plainly said, Don’t speak again.

A cruel silence crept into the room.

“This woman came to my house,” my husband began, “rained upon by sticks, stones, and thunder. But given the course of events…” He cleared his throat. “It seems you, Samir, merely adorned her with the bruises of love—blows of affection and tenderness.”

He gestured to Idhil.

“Here you have a woman, not in pain, but in love. It seems your actions have made her heart softer. Is that so, Samir?”

My goodness. Poetic sarcasm. The pettiness in me almost made me laugh.

“I tell you something… despite your targeted malevolence in speech, you almost had me there. But I am blunt.” He chuckled bitterly. “I’ll just tell you to go F yourself. Yes, I mean the F word—out of respect. Otherwise I’d say the real thing, right in front of your wife. Who do you think you are? God? A judge? Can you stop meddling in my effing business and household?”

“Disrespect!” I stood up. “How dare you, wife-beater!”

“Adam, can you control your wife?” Samir snapped.

I lost patience.

“If she were my wife,” he added, “she wouldn’t behave the way she does. I tell you.”

“You are out of order.” My husband’s tone exploded. The air seemed to tremble around us. “You can’t say that. It is not your place.”

A stillness fell again. I felt the hairs on my back stand. Then I noticed Idhil—she had taken her husband’s hand. Her left clasped tightly in his right.

“Idhil,” I said. “This man nearly killed you. And you’re still holding his hand? Are you even normal? Has he bewitched you?”

“Listen.” Her voice was shaky. “This is my husband. And he has come for me. Can’t you see? Can’t you see that he was bothered enough by my absence that he sought after me?”

As she spoke, her voice grew firmer. Then she found the courage to look me in the eyes.

My husband nodded at her and spoke with unnerving calm:

“I respect you, Idhil. You are an open book. Resilience is in your blood. Honestly, I think you were born for this—born to be beaten and then loved. The genetic composition of your being has accepted it. And for love… we can withstand everything.”

“Get out of my house, Idhil,” I said softly, tears in my eyes. My heart bled.

“Get out!” I screamed. “Both of you!”

Samir and Idhil left the living room.

I watched them walk out—hand in hand, like newlyweds heading off on honeymoon. Fresh air swept into the room as the door closed behind them. For a moment, I looked at my husband. He was still seated, lost in disbelief.

I wiped my face. Tears wouldn’t stop flowing.

What had just transpired?

“This is exactly what I tried to avoid,” he said quietly.

“Amina, when two people are in love, never interfere in their affairs.”

“Even if one is killing the other?” I asked, bitter.

“Yes. Even then,” he said coldly. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

“That’s cruel.”

“No. That’s nature.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“Misky married young. My cousin. One day she was beaten almost to death. I decided to be the hero. I confronted her husband, and he beat me so badly I needed stitches on my face.”

“I reported him. The police took him into custody. But guess who showed up the next morning to get him out? Misky. Herself.”

He paused.

“My scars healed. But the wounds in my heart stayed. From that day, I never got involved in people’s love affairs. I hope you’ve learned something too. Focus on your life.”

I cried.

This time, not just for Idhil—but for myself. For believing I could help her. I knew she wasn’t okay. I knew it deep in my bones. I knew how cruel he had been to her. But in her desperation for love, she clung to it.

Sometimes, when a woman sees nothing but walls—trapped in fear and violence—not even the blows of death can convince her to leave.

“Oh, world. Why are you so cruel?” I asked aloud.

“She chose,” my husband said.

Then he rose, quietly, and walked to the bedroom to finish his sleep.