The Meadow 75 Her laughter cuts off the rest of my words. It is tinged with amusement, insinuating that my utterance is unreasonable. I know this because it’s the same laugh she released from her throat when I told her, after being punished for stealing mangoes from our next-door neighbor, that I would pack my bags and leave the house. I was ten years old at the time. “My daughter, I have told you before that marriage is a test. Didn’t your father and I argue while he was alive?” “But daddy didn’t drag you across the floor and whip you with a belt!” I scream at her. My hands are vibrating. As angry as I am, my mother’s words strung together in the form of advice do not surprise me. She always finds a way to shift the blame from my husband, to normalize the slaps that my poor cheeks received or the welts that formed on my back after enduring lashes from Tobi’s belt. Sometimes I wonder what my father would say or do if he were here. I wonder if he would also tell me to quit being disrespectful to my husband or to submit to his wishes. My mother always brings him up as an example. I think it silly that she does this when my father never even laid his hands on her once. I watch her release that laugh again. She hisses loudly, her eyes fixed on the beans piled onto her palm. “Just because you didn’t see him beat me doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” I am stunned. My mouth opens but I can’t speak. “D-Daddy beat you? When?” I ask when I find the words. She delays her response, blowing away at some left-over weevils stuck in the midst of the beans. “It was when you were at university. Things weren’t going well financially for us at the time. Your father was always stressed. I still think that’s what killed him.” Disappointment pools in my chest. I hate the excuse I can hear in her voice. I hope I don’t become the type of woman who excuses my husband’s abusive behavior.
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