Mr. Darlington's Ex Wife

Chapter 4

Amara.

My mother arrived in my bedroom looking radiant in her long white nightdress. She smelled fresh like a rose, and she came into my room with Agnes, who greeted me warmly: “Good morning, Amara. I brought your tea and bread.”

“Thank you,” I told Agnes, accepting the teacup from her hand. I walked up to my chair in my room and sat down, where I drank my tea while eating the bread with it.

My mother walked to look outside the window, then walked back to me and said, “Hurry up. The driver is already here, and why did you not make up your face? You know that you will see your husband in the city, so you should look attractive when you eventually meet him.”

I pouted my pink lips as I finished drinking my tea.

Internally, I did not have any intention of pleasing the man to whom I might be married, and my mother said, “Agnes, get me my makeup box from my room.”

“No, Mom. There will be no need for that. I do not have to pretend in the face of my husband. So I am perfectly okay like this—the way I am. If I pretend with him, what if I cannot continue pretending to live the fake life I had presented to him at first sight?”

My mother looked at my face, speechless at first. She finally replied, “Okay. Be fast then.”

“I am through. Mom, I hope Darlington is good. If not, I will be back here, as I did not plan for all this,” I said.

My mother sighed and walked up to my side. She said, “You nag a lot. Just hush, and everything will be fine. Let us go downstairs.”

“Hmm.” I bit my lower lip internally and followed my mother downstairs while Agnes took my used tray and teacup to the kitchen.

My mother and I walked downstairs into the living room, and there we met my father, standing in the center of the living room. He was still in his white robe, and he was speaking to a tall man that I was unfamiliar with.

I watched the tall, middle-aged man greet my father: “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Timothy. You should drive safely and ensure you return on time,” my father spoke to the man in black pants and a white shirt paired with black men’s shoes.

“Okay, sir. I will,” the driver replied, and my father turned to face me. “Amara...”

“Father, good morning,” I greeted my father. I felt tears well up in my eyes again. Even when I went to the university and studied accounting in the city, I did not cry leaving my parents.

But now I felt like I was going to my husband’s house. I might not be able to return home again to live with my parents like I used to—the farms we visited, the harvested produce, and also my father’s factory. I felt like I would not get to see any of that again.

I did not want to leave home, but I had no other option. It comes at a time in a person’s life when they must shoulder a compulsory responsibility to build their own family and a place to call home.

“Your mother and I will miss you. But, like I told you the previous night, we are not selling you off. You can always return home to us if you still do not like the city, but I will not expect you to return home quickly or alone. Maybe with my grandchildren, at least two or three of them.”

“Dad...” My face flushed red. I could not believe that my father was telling me about bringing my future children home and that I would go there to become a mother too.

I was quite emotional about all this, but I knew I had to do it to continue my family lineage and to have someone to look up to in the following years—to carry on with what my parents would eventually leave behind someday.

“It is okay. Stop crying. Now come, let me escort you outside,” my father urged me, and I walked up to his side.

Dad petted me closely and reassured me about my husband’s people being friendly and the fact that they would wholeheartedly welcome me.

I finally got into the sleek black car—a black Mercedes-Benz. I waved goodbye to my parents, uncles, and aunts, who had pulled up in front of my father’s mansion to say goodbye to me too.

My aunt, Mrs. Juliet, was sobbing after she heard that I was also married off like I was sold off.

My parents also had a sad look on their faces, but I knew that this would not be the end of me.

I was not leaving them forever; I was only going to the city to multiply and to become a mother, as my father had said.

I took out my white handkerchief and wiped off my teary face. I blew my nose, knowing my face had become a mess. I watched the car start, and the driver reminded me to fasten my seatbelt.

I obeyed him and buckled up my seatbelt. Soon the black car finally drove out of my parents’ home.

Stealing a final look backward, I saw my mother crying and my father hugging her closely and assuring her that I was going to be okay while he alone waved goodbye at me.

The driver then sped up, and we headed to the city. I knew the drive to the town would take hours, as the city was far from the countryside where my parents and I lived, and where I had spent twenty-four years of my life.

I decided to search for my husband's name online, at least to find something to distract my mind and to see the face of the man to whom I was married.

I entered the social media network that we used in my country. We used the Facebòok network to browse, chat, and upload some of our photos online.

I did upload mine, but after getting plenty of likes and reactions and the fear of fake parody accounts that were impersonating me, I decided to take a break.

Now I searched for my husband’s name: Darlington Briggs. I saw many people with the same name as him, and finding the honest Darlington Briggs was not hard, as he had my father as his mutual friend.

I knew some people did not use their real names online—well, their choice—but I used mine alongside my parents’. It was easy to connect with old family friends, especially those with whom we had lost contact. But if I were using a fake name, I doubted the search would be easy.

As I looked at the Darlington Briggs profile, I gasped. I saw the familiar face of the man I was married to.