The moment my wife saw me eating, she rushed outside, clutching the red scarf tightly in her hand.
I followed silently and stopped by the door, listening.
Outside, I heard whispers—her voice low, careful, almost secretive. I couldn’t understand the words. Only my name, spoken softly, again and again.
Then everything went silent, as if she had vanished. I waited. Seconds stretched into uneasy stillness.
Slowly, I opened the door.
She was already turning back toward the house, her face calm, untouched by panic, as though nothing unusual had happened.
“Oh, honey,” she said with a smile. “Aren’t you eating?”
I stared at her. “Why did you rush outside like that?”
She laughed lightly. “I just needed some fresh air.”
“Fresh air?” I asked, my chest tight.
She tilted her head. “Are you doubting me?”
Before I could respond, a neighbor walking past suddenly stopped. He looked from me to my wife, visibly confused.
“When did you get back?” he asked her. “I could have sworn I saw you earlier… walking near the cemetery.”
My stomach dropped.
“That’s impossible,” I said quickly. “She’s been here.”
My wife said nothing. She simply looked away.
The neighbor laughed nervously. “Must have been someone who looks like her.” Then he walked off.
She still didn’t say a word.
Once inside, her mood shifted instantly. She became cheerful again—laughing, playful, touching my arm the way she always did. The tension faded so fast it felt unreal.
As I sat down to continue eating, she stopped me.
“Wait,” she said gently.
Leaning closer, she smiled and wiped my face with the red scarf.
“Your face is oily,” she whispered.
I smiled, thanked her, and thought nothing of it.
She took the scarf into the bedroom and didn’t return until I finished eating.
That night, sleep refused to come.
I replayed everything—the way she rushed outside, how she avoided my eyes, and the red scarf.
Why did she have to use it on me?
By morning, I still had no answers.
As she tied the scarf again before serving breakfast, I finally asked,
“Honey… why is it always that scarf before I eat?”
She paused—just for a second—then smiled.
“You worry too much,” she said lightly. “It’s nothing. Just something I like to do.”
And just like that, the conversation ended.
That was when I knew she would never tell me the truth.
If I wanted answers, I would have to find them myself.
I said nothing more.
On my way home from work that evening, I stopped and bought a red scarf—one that looked exactly like hers.
I planned to replace it quietly.
But the moment I stepped into the house, she looked at me…
And began to laugh.
To be continued…
Written by Arewa Star
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