I was 14 when I was married into this house — the oldest and most feared family in the underworld. It wasn’t love, nor was it cruelty. It was duty. My husband was 19 — the next heir. He never hurt me, never raised his voice. He simply… existed beside me. Distant, composed, always buried in the weight of his future.

I was raised here — but not like the daughters. They are cherished. Protected. Given room to speak, cry, grow. Wives are different. We serve. We stay silent. We follow the rules.

My early days were full of mistakes. Once, I forgot a water glass at the dinner table. The taunts came instantly:

“She’s new.” “Probably wasn’t trained properly.” “Such carelessness already?”

I learned quickly after that. I became everything I was expected to be — obedient, respectful, precise. I never asked for more than what was given. I never crossed a line.

Now, I’m 22. Eight years into this life. I’ve accepted the structure, the silence, the way things are. My husband and I don’t speak much, but I understand him. He understands me. That’s enough.

But something unusual is happening now.

One of the daughters — his cousin — the one who ran away five years ago with a man of her choosing… is returning. With her husband. And their two children.

The men — my father-in-law, my husband, the uncles — are discussing it daily. Rooms are being prepared. Gifts selected. Menus reviewed. It’s all being done with such care… and yet I can feel it:

There’s tension beneath the calm. Something unspoken.

Of course, I don't question it. It's not my place. I'm only here to assist — to arrange the rooms, set the table, prepare the tea.

They don’t speak to me during their meetings. They don’t need to.

But I listen. Not out of rebellion — just habit. Just care. Because if I’m going to serve this family right, I have to understand what they need.

Even if no one ever asks me what I need.