I had been consuming his betrayal with every meal. The mysterious illnesses, the unexplained infertility, the constant, draining fatigue—it all made sense now. Every time I had wept in his arms over our inability to conceive, he had been the one ensuring that dream would never come to fruition. He wasn’t just preventing a child; he was systematically dismantling my health under the guise of a loving, God-fearing partner.

As I huddled in the darkness of our wardrobe, the sound of his footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor. He was whistling a hymn, the same one we had sung in church just days ago. The audacity of his performance was chilling. He walked into the kitchen, his voice bright and expectant as he called out for me. He was waiting for me to join him at the table, waiting for me to take that first, fatal spoonful of the poisoned Ogbono soup. He expected me to play the role of the devoted wife, unaware that the hunter had just become the prey.

My hands trembled as I gripped the laptop, but my mind had never been sharper. For years, I had been the soft, submissive woman, the one who apologized for things I didn’t do and trusted blindly in a man who viewed me as nothing more than an obstacle to his property and peace. That woman died the moment I saw him spit into that pot. I wasn’t going to run, and I wasn’t going to scream. I was going to dismantle him piece by piece, using the very evidence he had provided.