Does not wisdom call out? Does not understanding raise her voice? … for wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her. Proverbs 8:1,11
Laís stood at a crossroads, but not on a real street. It was a silent crossroads, in the middle of the kitchen of her luxurious house, as she prepared breakfast for her husband, Rubens. On one side was the path of security: a life of material comfort, social status, and the stability that Rubens offered her. On the other was an uncertain path, shrouded in mist, that promised only one thing: her own soul back.
Rubens was not a monster. He was worse. He was a master of subtle manipulation. His criticisms came disguised as “care,” his control as “protection.”
“Are you really going to wear that, my love? It doesn’t flatter you,” he would say, undermining her confidence. “Let me handle the finances. You don’t have the head for it,” he would insist, keeping her in a state of childlike dependence.
The voice of wisdom, however, was calling out. It did not shout; it whispered.
It called from the “high places” of her memory: the recollection of the strong, independent woman she was before she married, the competent professional who had given up her career at his request.
It stood “on the pathways” during her trips to the bookstore, where her eyes were drawn to books on relationships and self-esteem. She would flip through them secretly, feeling a mixture of shame and recognition.
It was “at the city gates” in the voice of her sister, who would tell her on the phone: “Laís, this isn’t normal. Love doesn’t diminish; it doesn’t imprison.”
And it cried out “at the doors” in the worried gazes of her few friends, whom Rubens had subtly pushed out of her life.
But the voice of fear shouted louder. The fear of uncertainty, of not being able to support herself, of being judged by society, of being alone. The silver and gold of the lifestyle Rubens provided seemed more valuable than the instruction her soul longed for.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday night. Rubens had organized a dinner for a potential client. Laís spent the entire day preparing everything. During dinner, she dared to disagree with one of Rubens’s political viewpoints. It was a mild, polite disagreement.
Later, after the guest had left, Rubens’s fury came, cold and cutting.
“You humiliated me,” he said, his voice low. “You made me look like a fool in front of an important man. Who do you think you are to have an opinion?”
That night, Laís did not sleep. His words echoed in her mind. She realized, with a painful clarity, that he did not love her. He possessed her. And the price of her security was her silence, her identity.
The next morning, in the kitchen, as the aroma of coffee mixed with the scent of her anguish, she found herself at the final crossroads. The voice of wisdom was calling out louder than ever, no longer as a whisper, but as a warning cry.
She looked at the luxury car in the garage, at the expensive furniture, at the gold on her finger. And, for the first time, she saw them for what they were: weights, not prizes.
She took off her apron. She went to the bedroom, took a small suitcase, and packed only the essentials. She left the diamond ring on the bed. As she walked out the front door, she felt a paralyzing terror, but also a rush of fresh air, as if she were emerging from a place underwater.
The path ahead of her was unknown. She had no job, no home, no plan. But she had herself. And she had chosen. She had chosen instruction over silver, knowledge over gold. She had chosen wisdom. And although she did not know where she was going, for the first time in many years, she felt that she was, finally, on the right path.
(Made with AI)
This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom
https://books2read.com/u/3knogL
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