L3

 

For many years...

I believed that my greatest enemy lived within the walls of this compound.

Every knock on the gate filled me with dread.

Every unfamiliar perfume made my heart race.

Every new smile upon his face became another reason for me to fear.

I spent years looking over my shoulder, wondering which woman would arrive next to replace me.

And then...

One morning...

Something within me became tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could cure.

It was the exhaustion of carrying bitterness for far too long.

The exhaustion of competing in a race I never volunteered to run.

The exhaustion of defending a throne that brought me no peace.

So today...

I have called every one of you here.

Not as rivals, not as strangers, not even as co-wives.

I have called you here as women.

As mothers, as daughters of the same Creator.

As fellow travelers carrying different versions of the same wound.

Please...

Sit.

No one needs to stand on ceremony today. No one needs to prove who is loved more.

No one needs to defend her position in this house.

Today...

Let us simply be human.

For years we have stared at one another with suspicion, we have measured one another's beauty, compared one another's cooking.

Counted the number of nights he spent in each room.

Celebrated when another wife fell from favor. Grieved whenever another seemed to rise.We have quietly kept score.

But tell me...

What has all this competition won us?

Has any one of us found lasting joy?

Has any one of us gone to bed every night with a heart full of peace?

Has any one of us truly been secure in his love?

No.

Every one of us has cried.

Some where no one could hear. Others before heaven alone. Some of us buried our tears beneath expensive clothes. Others beneath loud laughter.

But tears... Have no respect for status.

Pain recognizes no favorite wife. It visits every room, every heart, every pillow.

Look at us. Really look. Behind every carefully applied smile...

There is a woman asking the same question.

"Why am I not enough?"

For years I asked that question too.

I blamed myself.

Perhaps I was no longer beautiful enough.

Perhaps I talked too much.

Perhaps I spoke too little.

Perhaps I had grown too old.

Perhaps motherhood had changed me.

Perhaps...

Perhaps...

Perhaps...

Until one day I discovered a painful truth.

The problem was never that I was not enough.

The tragedy was that no woman could ever be enough for a man searching for healing in places where healing does not exist.

My dear sisters...

Listen carefully.

This may be the most important thing I ever say. We have mistaken one another

 for the enemy... While dining every night with the architect of our division.

We sharpened our tongues against one another... While the hand that held the knife

 remained untouched.We stood guard against one another...While the walls around our home quietly crumbled.

He never needed us to hate one another. He only needed us to fear one another.

Fear would do the rest.

Fear whispered that another woman's beauty was your failure.

Fear convinced you that another child's success diminished your own.

Fear taught us to celebrate another woman's tears because we believed her loss increased our chances of being loved.

But fear is a terrible teacher.

It gives lessons that destroy every student.

Look at our children. They were not born hating one another.

They learned it. They watched us compete. They watched us compare.

They watched us wound one another with careless words.

And little by little... They inherited a war they never started.

When my children returned home from school, they would tell me stories about classmates who came from peaceful homes.

Not perfect homes. Peaceful ones.

They spoke with wonder about siblings who defended one another instead of fighting over inheritance before their parents were gone.

Each story pierced my heart, because I realized something.

The greatest inheritance we were leaving our children was not land...

Not wealth...

Not family businesses...

We were leaving them division.

And unless someone chose to end it...

Our daughters would become us.

Our sons...

Would become him.

I refuse to let that be our legacy.

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