Marriage was supposed to be a beautiful journey, and as I walked into it, my heart was full of joy. I told myself, "This marriage must work." After all, no woman prays for her union to fail. Our wedding was a dream, and after the celebration, we decided to spend two days at a hotel just to unwind from all the stress. Little did I know that those two days would be the last time I would experience true marital bliss with the man I thought was godly. A Shocking Beginning Reality hit me just a few days after we settled into our home. It was a Saturday morning, the very first week of our marriage. I can’t recall if we prayed together that morning, but I remember how quickly he got dressed, preparing to leave the house. “Where are you going so early?” I asked, surprised. “I’m going out,” he replied bluntly. I laughed nervously. “You can’t leave me all alone at home like this,” I protested, expecting a playful response. But instead of a smile, he gave me a cold, hard stare. Before I could process his reaction, he pushed me aside and walked out, leaving me standing there shocked, confused, and hurt. That evening, when he returned, I attempted to bring up what had happened. But his response shook me to my core. “Don’t you ever try what you did this morning again in your life,” he warned. I swallowed hard. “No wahala,” I mumbled, choosing to let it go. But what happened next was something I never saw coming. He went straight to the guest room, where our wedding gifts were still unpacked. One by one, he began picking up fragile items—glassware, ceramics, and anything breakable. My heart pounded in fear. I had no idea what he was about to do, but something told me it wasn’t good. Tears welled up in my eyes, and without thinking, I grabbed my phone and called my father. But just as quickly, I ended the call before it connected. I can’t tell anyone, I decided. This is my marriage, and I must make it work. A False Sense of Hope The following day was Sunday, and my family came to visit. Seeing my parents and siblings filled me with joy I hadn’t felt in days. We laughed, shared stories, and enjoyed a good meal together. But beneath my smile, I carried a secret I had no courage to share. That night, he apologized. He told me he was sorry for his actions, and despite the pain and confusion I felt, I forgave him. Why? Because I remembered how, during our first date, he had been honest about his flaws. He had told me about his struggles, his temper, and his imperfections. And back then, I had told myself, No one is perfect. We all need love, understanding, and support. So, I held on. I chose to fight for us. But love, as I later discovered, can be a painful mystery. It was a rollercoaster of emotions—filled with moments of hope and overwhelming despair. A Silent Struggle As time passed, the verbal abuse became unbearable. He had a way with words—sharp, biting words that cut deep. But during all the pain, something unexpected happened. I got pregnant. My first pregnancy was a journey of its own—one I wasn’t even aware of at first. I continued my daily routine, carrying out chores, lifting heavy loads, and doing all I could to ensure my husband wasn’t stressed when he returned from work. Imagine a pregnant woman carrying two 25-liter kegs of water, simply because she didn’t want her husband to come home and fetch water himself. That was me. Until my body finally gave up. It was a Saturday, and although it was supposed to be my day off, I had agreed to help my cousin at work in Ojota. On my way there, I began feeling an intense pain in my side so severe that I had to lie down in the office. I somehow made it back home, but the pain refused to subside. That night, my husband panicked and called my parents. By 7 AM the next morning, they arrived at our home, having left as early as 6 AM. They found me curled up on the floor, writhing in pain. Without wasting time, they carried me into the car and rushed me to our family hospital. My husband, however, didn’t follow us immediately. He only joined us later. At the hospital, the doctors ran some tests and confirmed what I had no idea about—pregnancy. But the heavy lifting and stress had already taken a toll on my body, affecting my sides and causing the intense pain. I was admitted and treated, but for proper care, my parents took me home with them. A Temporary Escape For two months, I stayed with my parents. Those months in their home felt like a refuge—a brief escape from the harsh reality I had entered. They nurtured me, cared for me, and reminded me what love should feel like. By August, my husband came to pick me up. I returned to my matrimonial home, stepping back into the unknown, but this time, as a mother-to-be. And so, my journey into motherhood began. To be continued. Anonymous