When a Mother Killed a Wife

I never imagined that the two women I loved the most would destroy each other under my roof.

When I brought my mother to live with us, I believed I was doing the right thing. She was getting old her back bent, her hands trembling, her voice no longer strong. Since my father died, loneliness followed her everywhere. I couldn’t leave her alone. She was my mother. She carried me. She raised me. I owed her.

My wife, Chidinma, didn’t protest at first. She smiled and said, “She’s your mother. She’s welcome.” But peace can be polite before it becomes painful.

From the first week, the house felt different.

My mother complained about everything Chidinma’s cooking, the way she dressed, the way she spoke, even the way she laughed.

“She is too stubborn,” my mother would say.

“She has no respect for elders.”

“She will turn you against me.”

Chidinma tried. She served my mother food before serving herself. She washed her clothes. She endured insults with forced smiles. But patience is not endless, and silence does not heal wounds.

Their arguments became a daily routine. Words flew like knives. Plates slammed. Doors shook. I stood in the middle, begging both women to calm down, promising solutions I never truly acted on.

I failed them both.

The night Chidinma died began like every other night with shouting.

I was in the bathroom when I heard raised voices. By the time I rushed out, Chidinma was crying, years of bottled pain finally breaking free.

“I am your son’s wife, not your enemy!” she shouted.

My mother stood near the kitchen, breathing heavily. Her eyes were wild, her pride wounded.

“You came to steal my son!” she screamed.

Chidinma laughed, bitter and tired. “I didn’t steal him. You’re the one pushing him away.”

That was when my mother grabbed the wooden pestle from the corner.

Her hands were shaking. Her voice cracked. “Leave my son alone!”

I shouted for them to stop, but my voice arrived too late.

One strike.

Just one.

The sound was heavy and final. Chidinma collapsed, her head hitting the edge of the table before she fell to the floor. Blood spread quickly, silently, like it had been waiting.

My mother dropped the pestle. Her anger vanished, replaced by terror.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “I only wanted to scare her.”

I held Chidinma in my arms, begging her to breathe, screaming her name until my throat burned. But she was already gone.

That night changed everything.

Now the house is quiet too quiet. No laughter. No arguments. Just echoes.

My mother sits alone, rocking back and forth, whispering prayers, crying my name like I am still the child she once protected.

But when I look at her, I see two faces.

The woman who gave birth to me.

And the woman who killed my wife.

If I report her, she will die in prison old, weak, and alone. Society will call me heartless. People will say I betrayed my blood.

If I protect her, I become something worse a man who buried the truth with his wife.

I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes, I see Chidinma’s face, her lips parted like she wanted to say something. I hear her asking me why I chose silence over justice.

The blood is gone from the floor, but it will never leave my hands.

How do you arrest the woman who carried you for nine months?

How do you forgive the woman who stole your future?

Every morning, I wake up trapped between two deaths one already buried, and one that lives with me.

And the cruelest truth?

No matter what I do, someone I love will remain dead.