WHAT A WOMAN COSTS

THE SON THEY WANTED

CHAPTER 3

The first time I realized my mother was willing to become anybody just to give my father a son was the day she followed him to the mosque even though she was not Muslim.

I remember standing outside afterward holding her sandals while women stared at her differently.

My father did not seem bothered.

As long as there was still a chance of a son, nothing else seemed to matter.

Not religion.

Not dignity.

Not even her exhaustion.

My mother was born Christian. Her mother still attended church every week and spoke about heaven like it was familiar. But after marrying my father, faith in our house became something flexible. Some days she went to church. Other days she followed him to mosque. Sometimes she did both in the same week, depending on what people said would help her conceive.

She wasn’t choosing religion anymore.

She was trying to survive pressure.

At first, the changes were small. She covered her hair more often after my grandmother said modest women received God’s favor faster. She stopped wearing certain clothes after someone warned that “spiritual forces” disliked bright colours. She began attending more prayers, more vigils, more consultations with anyone who claimed to understand childbirth.

She believed all of them.

And slowly, I watched her disappear inside their instructions.

One evening, she came home with a small bottle wrapped in black nylon. The smell alone made my stomach turn.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Medicine,” she said.

“That smells like gutter.”

She gave a tired laugh, just once, like she almost remembered who she used to be.

“The woman said it will help me conceive properly.”

Properly.

I didn’t like that word. It made me feel like I was something that didn’t count.

That night, I woke to sounds outside. I found her behind the house, crouched in the dirt, vomiting until her body shook.

“Mama!”

She quickly wiped her mouth. “Go back inside.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t.

Nothing about her was fine anymore.

When we returned inside, my father barely looked up from the radio.

“She vomited again,” I said.

“Hm.”

That was all.

Just hm.

It was then I started noticing the distance between them. Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just slow, like something drying up.

My grandmother visited often. Whenever she came, the air in the house changed.

That evening, I pretended to wash plates while she spoke outside.

“A man cannot build legacy with daughters alone,” she said.

My mother lowered her eyes. “I know.”

“You must pray harder.”

“I am trying.”

“Trying is not enough.”

Then she looked at me.

“And this one follows you everywhere. Girls become stubborn when they are over-loved.”

I tightened my grip on the plate.

“You should already be teaching her how to behave before she grows useless,” she added.

My mother’s voice changed immediately.

“Hadiza is not useless.”

The silence after that felt heavy. My mother rarely spoke back.

But she did when it came to me.

That night, while we spread mats, I asked quietly, “Mama… are you unhappy because I’m a girl?”

She turned sharply.

“Who said that to you?”

“No one.”

Her expression softened, but her voice stayed firm.

“Listen to me. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Then why does everybody act like you failed?”

Her hands paused on my hair.

For a moment, she looked like she might cry.

Instead, she pulled me closer.

“Because some people only know how to measure women through sons,” she said.

I didn’t understand then.

But I felt the weight of it.

After that, the pressure increased. Every few weeks, someone arrived with another solution. Water with prayers written inside. Herbs tied in cloth. Instructions, restrictions, warnings.

Even my father changed.

He became more religious in public, quieter at home. Sometimes he prayed loudly enough for neighbors to hear. Other times he barely spoke at all.

I once heard him say outside, “A man needs balance in his home.”

Balance meant something else.

One afternoon, I came home early and heard voices from my parents’ room. The door was slightly open.

“I’ve been patient,” my father said.

“I’m trying my best,” my mother replied.

“How long am I expected to wait?”

Silence followed.

Then my mother said, “If you want another wife, just say it.”

I froze.

The room went quiet.

Then my father sighed.

“Don’t start drama.”

Drama.

As if fear could be called drama.

I stood there until my legs started shaking.

That night, my mother cooked without singing. Without humming. Without anything that used to make her feel alive.

Later, she sat outside alone under the moonlight. I joined her quietly.

After a while, she asked, “If anything happens to me… will you remember me properly?”

My chest tightened. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Just answer.”

I looked at her.

She looked tired in a way I didn’t understand yet.

“Yes,” I said.

She nodded slowly.

“Good.”

A few weeks later, she collapsed in the kitchen.

One moment she was stirring soup.

The next, she fell.

The spoon hit the floor first.

Then her body followed.

I screamed.

Neighbors rushed in. My father carried her to the bed while people splashed water on her face.

When she woke up, they called it weakness from pregnancy.

But I saw something else.

Fear.

Real fear.

As if her body had started doing things without her permission.

That night, I stayed awake beside her, watching her breathe.

Slow.

Uneven.

Heavy.

I pressed my hand against her arm just to make sure she was still there.

But even then, something in me already understood.

Love was not enough to keep someone alive.

And something in my mother was already beginning to leave us.