My breasts were sore. My sleep came in pieces. But that day, I got up early, cleaned the house, tied my wrapper tight, and prepared okra soup—Mother-in-law’s favorite. They had called the night before. “We’re coming to greet our grandson,” Mama had said. I was excited. Nervous, too. You see, in Igbo culture, when a woman gives birth, the husband’s people come to "officially bless the child.” I thought it would just be gifts, prayers, and food. I didn’t know they were bringing something else. By 11 a.m., they arrived. Mama was first to enter—regal as always, in her stiff gold lace and head tie. Behind her came three tall men—my husband’s brothers: Obinna, the quiet one; Emeka, the joker; and Chisom, the one who barely ever made eye contact with me. I greeted them one by one, knelt to offer water, and served soup with fufu. Mama looked around and smiled. “This is how a wife should take care of her husband’s house,” she said, nodding. “Ezi nwunye.” I blushed. “Thank you, Mama.” But her smile held something else. Something tight. Something I didn’t understand. After they ate and played briefly with Chigozie, Mama cleared her throat. “Let’s go to the sitting room. There’s something we must discuss.” I followed. My wrapper stuck to my legs from sweat. We sat. Mama in the middle. The brothers flanked her like guards. I sat opposite, holding my son. My heart picked up speed. “Eh, Ada m,” she began, “We’re happy with how you carried our son. God bless you.” “Amen,” I whispered. “But now, it’s time to carry your full responsibility as wife.” I tilted my head, confused. “Mama?”