On the first day of our marriage, my husband threw a greasy dishcloth in my face and said, “From now on, you’re my family’s maid.” I smiled, left my wedding ring on the table, and walked out with my suitcase.
Until that morning, I had thought he was exaggerating the dangers of marriage.
I looked at the kitchen sink overflowing with dirty dishes, burnt pots, and the cups the family had used that morning. Then I forced a calm smile onto my face.
“Understood,” I replied as I looked Brandon straight in the eyes. “I will cook, wash, serve, and earn the right to eat.”
Brandon seemed disappointed by my quiet response because he had clearly expected tears, a loud argument, or a pathetic plea for mercy.
“Then begin right now,” Brenda ordered as she pointed a finger at the sink. “And when you are finished with that, separate Brandon’s clothes because his shirts must be hand-washed.”
I went into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and washed my face three times with cold water to clear my mind. Then I left the dirty cloth on the counter, went upstairs to my bedroom, and closed the door firmly.
My suitcase was still almost untouched from our move. I quickly packed all my important documents, clothes, my laptop, phone chargers, and the bank card containing our money. I also took the cash envelopes my family had left for me. Finally, I placed my wedding ring next to our official wedding portrait on the dresser.
Down below in the living room, Brandon shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Melanie! If you do not finish those dishes in half an hour, you do not eat today.”
I dragged my heavy suitcase down the stairs, making a loud noise that brought everyone into the hallway.
