My brother-in-law died young without an heir, so my husband, usually so cool and self-possessed, agreed to the elders’ request and took responsibility for carrying on the family lines of both households.
Every time he had been with my sister-in-law, he would kneel before me and comfort me gently:
“I am bound by ritual. As the elder brother, I have no choice. I can only ask you to bear this, my dear.
“She and I are merely going through the motions. Once she conceives, I will be yours alone.”
My heart was torn to shreds, but I could only believe he had no choice.
Yet I remembered how, back then, he had defied an imperial marriage decree to marry me, a cripple, ready to take on the whole world for my sake.
It was not until our six-year-old daughter caught him repeatedly carrying on with that widow in the garden and hidden rooms of the house that I finally saw the truth.
The girl was so frightened that she suffered nightmares every night. At last, my heart died, and I wished him a house full of descendants.
He did not know that this leg of mine could be crippled for his sake, but it could also carry me away from him, never to look back.
