Chapter 5: Blood and Bruises you don't see

The morning after Michael kissed her goodbye and walked into the unknown with his secret, Sandra barely slept. Her thoughts unraveled like thread in the wind. The drawer. The perfume. The voice on the phone.

But she smiled through it all.

She was beginning to master the art of silent suspicion—of letting lies hang themselves slowly.

That afternoon, she polished the sitting room till it gleamed. If her life was going to fall apart, it wouldn’t be in a dirty house. She was folding freshly laundered towels when the doorbell rang.

Ding dong.

She checked the time: 2:07 p.m. Michael hadn’t mentioned expecting anyone. Her brow furrowed.

She walked over to the door and peeped through the curtain. And then her stomach dropped.

Standing outside was none other than Amaka—Michael’s older sister. The one person in his family who had never accepted her.

Sandra hesitated, took a deep breath, then opened the door.

“Good afternoon, sis,” she said gently, reaching to help with the bags.

Amaka snatched her arm away. “Don’t touch my bag. I have hands and can use them—unlike you, who can’t even use your womb.”

Sandra’s smile didn’t flinch. She only stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in. Let me get you water. You must be tired.”

Amaka entered the house with the stiff elegance of a royal judge on inspection duty, her eyes roaming like a scanner—dissecting every corner of the living room, every piece of furniture, every scent of home that didn’t belong to her people.

Sandra returned moments later, placing a cold glass of water on the table.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

Amaka ignored the water and kept walking slowly around the room. “So this is what you’ve turned my brother into? Sofa pillows and scented candles? Six years of marriage and nothing to show for it but throw pillows and makeup.”

Sandra said nothing. Her eyes burned, but her silence was louder than any words.

Amaka turned, hands on her hips. “Why have you chosen to end my brother’s lineage? Eh? Tell me. For six good years, you eat, you shine, you wear gold, and you waste time. Do you think you’re the only beautiful woman on earth?”

Sandra breathed in deeply and answered, voice calm like still water. “I cooked jollof rice. Should I dish some out for you?”

Amaka’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and walked into the guest room, slamming the door behind her.

Sandra stood there for a moment, gripping the water glass, knuckles white. She didn’t cry.

She had cried too many times already.

Instead, she walked back into the kitchen, opened the pot of jollof rice, and stared into it. The steam rose like the anger buried inside her. She stirred it slowly, rhythmically, as if it might help her stir the chaos away.

First my husband. Now his sister. What next? What if they’ve all known all along? What if I’ve been surrounded by actors and blindfolded by love?

The thought snapped something in her.

She walked back to the living room and sat, staring at the locked drawer in the console. Michael’s secret drawer. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass covering. And in that reflection, she didn’t look like the woman who used to wait and hope and pray.

She looked like someone preparing for war.

Tomorrow, that drawer opens.

And whatever’s in there, I will face it. Head on.

From the hallway, she heard Amaka muttering insults on the phone. “She’s lucky I don’t slap nonsense out of her. You see all this fake smile and cooking? It won’t last. This marriage? It’s dead. The girl is barren—spiritually and physically.”

Sandra heard every word.

And for the first time in a long while, she smiled.

Because the storm had already come—and she was still standing.