Madam Eno’s hatred did not start suddenly.  

It had been growing for years, curling inside her like poison waiting for release.  

She had wanted to have her own children. She had tried, prayed, visited doctors, swallowed concoctions, changed her diet. But her womb remained empty. It was a reality she had struggled to accept.  

At first, she convinced herself it was just a delay, that time would change things. But time betrayed her.  

Month after month, year after year, no child came.  

She began to hate herself. Then she hated the whispers. The village women would talk—some in sympathy, others in judgment. They would offer advice, some claiming they knew special remedies, others suggesting she pray harder.  

But none of them understood what it felt like to carry that emptiness, to watch other women cradle their babies while her arms remained bare.  

Then there was Mark.  

Mark—the boy she had pretended to love when Chief Obiora was alive. The boy who reminded her, every single day, of her failure.  

She began to resent him, not because he had done anything wrong, but because he was evidence of everything she did not have. She looked at him and saw the child she had never birthed.  

And that resentment turned into cruelty.

The first beating came unexpectedly.  

One afternoon, after Mark returned from school he had spilled water near the doorway. It was an accident—his hands had slipped as he was carrying the cup.  

Madam Eno looked at the spilled water as if it had insulted her. Without a word, she slapped him.  Mark was shocked.

The force of her hand sent him stumbling backward. He did not understand. He had never been hit before, never experienced pain like this. She did not stop.  

She slapped him once, twice—each slap landing sharper than the last.  

"Useless boy," she shouted.  

Mark held his breath, trying to stop himself from crying. He had learned something from watching his stepmother—she enjoyed it when he cried.  

So, he swallowed his tears.  

That was the day he learned silence was safer. He wouldn’t speak to anyone about the abuse he was experiencing at home so that it wouldn’t anger Madam Eno more.