I believed him when he told me my roots would never embarrass him.
I believed him when he promised that in the city, we would build a life where I would never have to lower my head.
I believed him…
Until he started correcting the way I spoke.
Until he told me certain dresses looked “too small-town.”
Until he stopped taking me anywhere important.
Until the night he introduced me, smiling, as someone who helped around the house.
I smiled too.
But something inside me cracked that night and never healed.
That dinner was the most important night of his career. I could see it in the way he had spent days barking orders, inspecting every flower, every plate, every bottle as if his future depended on it.
“Don’t ruin anything tonight,” he had told me earlier, barely meeting my eyes. “Make something refined. Subtle. No strong smells. None of… your style.”
My style.
As if my cooking were something shameful.
As if the generations of women before me—my mother, my grandmother, my aunts grinding spices with tired hands—were something to hide.
I lowered my head.
And said yes.
But I didn’t mean it.