I once knew a man who walked taller than his name.
He thought himself above kings, above whispers, above the laws of cause and consequence. He was clever, charming, cunning — and mine. I was proud of him once.
I helped him rise. I watched him drink power like wine, and I refilled the cup. I am Zeresh, wife of Haman the Agagite. And this is what I now know:
Pride always builds gallows.
Sometimes for enemies.
Sometimes for the one who holds the hammer.
I Suggested the Wood
I remember that night. Haman came home burning with rage — not from failure, but from disrespect.
A man named Mordecai had refused to bow.
Not challenge. Not insult. Just refusal.
And that was enough to unravel Haman’s peace.
It ate at him like moths at silk.
And I — I fed it.
“Build a gallows,” I said.
“Hang him before breakfast. Then go dine with the queen.”
It felt like wisdom.
It sounded like support.
But now, I wonder:
What if I had spoken restraint instead of revenge?
What if I had reminded him that one man’s posture cannot unseat true power?
The Fall I Saw Too Late
When he returned from parading Mordecai through the streets, something in him had broken.
His silence frightened me more than his fury ever had.
He collapsed into a chair and stared at the floor, hands shaking.
I knew then — before he told me. I saw it before he spoke:
His rise was over.
His fall had begun.
And I, who once encouraged his climb, could only whisper: “If Mordecai is truly a Jew… you will not prevail. You will fall.”
I said it with dread.
I said it with truth.
But I said it too late.
I Hear the Wood at Night
They took him at dawn.
No trial. No second chance.
The gallows he had built for another became his resting place.
Now the house is quiet.
Too quiet.
The servants barely speak.
The neighbors glance, then look away.
Once, my husband’s name was spoken with awe.
Now it is swallowed with unease.
I do not defend him. But I do not forget him.
He was many things —
Ambitious. Ruthless. Broken.
And loved.
The Lesson I Carry
I have learned something in this ruin:
Hatred ages faster than wisdom.
Pride builds faster than humility.
But only humility survives.
Mordecai lives. Esther reigns.
And I sit in a house built by my husband’s name, haunted by the echo of my own voice, whispering, “Build it high.”
Now I say:
Better to bow in silence
than to rise on arrogance
and fall by your own hand.
