Chapter 16 — Let Me Breathe
The hall was quiet.
Only the ticking of the old wall clock and the distant sound of a fan humming filled the space. The maids had returned to their quarters. But one—Maa Abena, the oldest—stood quietly by the doorway, pretending to tidy a corner, her eyes not missing a thing.
Esi's chest rose and fell sharply as the last words left her mouth. "What do you expect from me? Sɛ wopere wo ho a, na ɛsono wo yareɛ. I just wanted the truth!"
Then her body gave in.
Tears poured—hot, bitter, unfiltered. She sat on the edge of the sofa like her bones were too heavy to hold up her skin. Her shoulders shook as she cried into her palms. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.
"I don't want this life," she whispered between sobs. "I don't want secrets. I don't want to be dragged into any of this... I just want peace. To live. To work for myself. To wake up without fear. I don't want anyone's drama. I don't want to feel trapped." I want to be out there drawing
Kwabena stood across from her, unsure whether to move.
He took one quiet step forward.
Another.
Then he knelt slowly beside her, his hand reaching gently for her arm. "Esi—"
She flinched and pulled back.
"Please... don't." Her voice cracked. "Just don't."
She stood up suddenly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "I want to be alone. I need space. I'm going to my room."
Kwabena hesitated. "But—"
"I said I need space." Her tone was firm now, not rude—just final.
She turned, walking toward the stairs.
As Kwabena moved as if to follow, Maa Abena raised her eyes from her dusting cloth and gave a subtle shake of her head.
"Let her go," she said softly, with the wisdom of a woman who had seen too many of these moments.
Kwabena stopped. He watched as Esi climbed the staircase, each step slower than the last.
At the top, she paused briefly and looked down—not at him, not at anyone. Just into the quiet of the hall.
Then she entered her room and gently closed the door behind her.
---
Upstairs, Esi sat at the edge of the bed, the silence of her room pressing in.
She buried her face in her hands again. The tears returned—slower this time, but heavier. The kind that seemed to come from her soul.
"I wish this marriage never happened," she whispered to herself. "I wish I could just start over... somewhere else... where no one knows me."
She lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Rolled to one side.
Then the other.
No sleep.
Just a mind full of questions and a heart full of noise.
Finally, she rose from the bed and walked to her small desk in the corner.
She pulled out a sketchpad. Her fingers, though shaking, found the pencil instinctively.
And she drew.
She didn't know what she was drawing—not really. But the strokes came fast. The lines deep.
A face.
Eyes full of water. Not tears—water. A reflection of all the heaviness inside her.
She kept drawing. Her heart beating through her fingers. The room silent except for the soft scratch of pencil on paper.
For the first time that night, her breathing slowed.
This... this was her peace.
---
Downstairs, Kwabena hadn't moved.
He now sat flat on the tiled floor, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
His eyes were red. Not from rage. Not from exhaustion.
From tears.
The kind a man cries in silence when he doesn't understand what's slipping from his hands.
Maa Abena stood by the hall's side wall, still holding the tray she never used. Her eyes softened as she looked at him.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
She just stood there, watching h
im crumble—not with judgment, but with the kind of pity that says, You, too, are lost in this house.