Hearing this, everyone around exploded with anger, calling me worse than a loser, saying I had no responsibility and hadn’t even thought about living a proper life.
Amara lowered her head, wiping away tears, looking utterly pitiful. “Honey, I said I won’t work anymore. Please don’t divorce me, okay?”
She stepped forward, wrapped one delicate arm around me and whispered, “To make it up to you, I’ll cook for you every day and sleep with you.”
I felt a wave of disgust and pushed her away forcefully. “Can you stop pretending?”
Amara knelt down before me, holding our son, softly crying.
“Honey, I work overtime to earn money — it’s not a crime. I’ll change, just forgive me this once, please?”
“No!”
Amara cried uncontrollably. “Honey, I’ll change everything you don’t like. Please, just forgive me!”
Sensing the heavy atmosphere around him, my son puckered his little lips and started crying loudly.
“Amara, a man like that is narrow-minded and heartless—don’t waste your feelings on him!”
The crowd saw that I wouldn’t listen to reason and they all trembled with anger, fists clenched, as if they wanted to beat me to death right there.