A Lifetime on Trial: Wika’s Story

“Wika, are you listening to me?” Mum’s voice was sharp, slicing through the low hum of the television. I pressed the remote, muting the laughter of some sitcom family, and glanced at Tom, my husband, hunched over his laptop at the dining table. He didn’t look up.

“I’m here, Mum. What’s happened?” I tried to keep my tone light, but my stomach was already knotting. Mum never called just for a chat, not at this hour.

“Nothing’s happened, love. I just wanted to talk. You know, catch up.”

I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Mum, please. Just say it.”

She hesitated, and in that pause, I heard the familiar rustle of her cardigan sleeve against the phone. “It’s just… your brother called. He said you’d had another row with Tom. Is everything alright?”

I shot Tom a look, but he was lost in his spreadsheets. “We’re fine, Mum. Just the usual. Work stress.”

“Wika, you know you can tell me if something’s wrong. You don’t have to pretend.”

I bit my lip. “I’m not pretending. Honestly, it’s nothing.”

But even as I said it, I could feel the weight of her doubt pressing through the phone. It was always like this. Ever since I was a child, I’d been the one in the family who had to explain herself, to justify every decision, every mistake. When my brother, Jamie, crashed Dad’s car, it was me who got the third degree. When money went missing from Mum’s purse, it was me who was questioned first. And now, as an adult, it seemed nothing had changed.

After I hung up, I sat in silence, staring at the muted TV. Tom finally looked up. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” I said, too quickly. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. That was Tom all over—never one for confrontation, happy to let things slide until they exploded.

I went to bed early, but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, I lay awake, replaying every conversation, every accusation, every time I’d been forced to defend myself. Was it something about me? Did I give off some air of guilt, some signal that made people doubt me?

The next morning, I woke to the sound of rain battering the windows. Tom was already gone, his side of the bed cold. I made tea and sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through my phone. Messages from Mum, Jamie, even my aunt—each one a variation on the same theme: Are you alright? Is Tom treating you well? Do you need to talk?

I wanted to scream. Why did they all assume something was wrong? Why was I always the one under suspicion?

At work, things weren’t much better. My manager, Helen, called me into her office. “Wika, I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit distracted lately. Is everything okay at home?”

I forced a smile. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

She nodded, but I could see the doubt in her eyes. “If you need time off, just say. We’re here to support you.”

Support. That word again. It always sounded like a threat, like a warning that I was being watched.

At lunch, I sat with my friend, Priya, in the staff canteen. She poked at her salad, glancing at me. “You seem tense. Want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing. Just family stuff.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Families, eh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

I laughed, but it sounded hollow, even to me.

That evening, Tom came home late. He dumped his bag by the door and slumped onto the sofa. “Long day,” he muttered.

I sat beside him, searching his face for some sign of warmth, of reassurance. “Tom, do you think I’m… difficult?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think I’m always causing trouble? That I’m… guilty of something?”

He looked genuinely puzzled. “Of course not. Where’s this coming from?”

I shrugged, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just… everyone always seems to think I’m at fault. Even when I’m not.”

He reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re not at fault, Wika. You never are. People just… they worry. Maybe you should talk to someone about it.”

I pulled my hand away, stung. “I don’t need therapy, Tom. I just need people to trust me.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I do trust you. But you have to let people in. You can’t keep pushing everyone away.”

I wanted to scream at him, to tell him he didn’t understand. But what was the point? No one ever did.

The days blurred into weeks. Every phone call from Mum was another interrogation. Every family gathering was a trial, with me in the dock, defending my choices, my marriage, my life. Even Jamie, golden boy Jamie, would pull me aside and ask if I was coping, if I needed help.

One Sunday, after a particularly tense lunch at Mum’s, I snapped. “Why is it always me? Why am I always the one you question, the one you doubt?”

Mum looked hurt. “We just worry about you, love. You’ve always been… sensitive.”

“Sensitive? Or guilty?”

She shook her head. “No one thinks you’re guilty, Wika. We just want you to be happy.”

I laughed bitterly. “Well, you have a funny way of showing it.”

I stormed out, slamming the door behind me. Outside, the sky was grey, the air thick with the promise of rain. I walked for hours, letting the cold seep into my bones, trying to outrun the sense of injustice that clung to me like a second skin.

When I finally got home, Tom was waiting. “Your mum called. She’s worried.”

“Of course she is,” I snapped. “She’s always worried. Always convinced I’m about to fall apart.”

He stood, crossing the room to pull me into his arms. “Maybe she just loves you, Wika. Maybe that’s all it is.”

I buried my face in his chest, letting the tears come. “I’m so tired, Tom. Tired of always having to prove myself. Tired of never being enough.”

He stroked my hair, whispering soothing words I barely heard.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about all the times I’d been accused, all the times I’d been forced to defend myself. Was it really them, or was it me? Had I internalised their doubts, made them my own?

The next morning, I called Mum. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

She sighed. “It’s alright, love. We just worry, that’s all.”

“I know. But you have to trust me, Mum. I’m not a child anymore. I can handle my own life.”

There was a long pause. “I’ll try, Wika. I promise.”

As I hung up, I felt a strange sense of relief. Maybe things wouldn’t change overnight. Maybe I’d always feel like I was on trial. But for the first time, I realised I didn’t have to accept it. I could demand to be trusted, to be believed.

I looked at Tom, still asleep beside me, and whispered, “Will I ever be free from this? Or is proving my innocence just part of who I am now?”

What do you think—can someone ever truly escape the shadow of suspicion, or are we all, in some way, prisoners of our past?