Exhausted and dusty from work, I trudged into our compound that evening, ready for a quiet night. But as I neared the door, my wife’s soft laughter stopped me cold. “Weka yote, babe, hii ni yako,” she said, her words slicing through me. My breath caught when I heard my father’s voice inside. My heart raced, anger and shame bubbling up. Was my wife betraying me with my dad? Trembling, I nudged the door open and peeked.

There she was, serving him a steaming, generous plate of food—the kind I hadn’t seen on our table in ages. My father grinned like he owned the place.It wasn’t cheating, but it stung like betrayal. I’d been hauling heavy bags of flour, rice, and meat, yet the good meals only appeared when I wasn’t around. That night, staring at our bed, I wondered if our marriage was crumbling over food. Love gets tested in odd ways, and somehow, her cooking for him felt heavier than infidelity. Continue Reading.