Adéwálé's Creative pen (2025)

20/09/2025

The night her father was discharged from the hospital, my wife didn’t come to bed.

I found her sitting alone in the living room, hugging her knees like a child. The glow of the lamp threw shadows across her face, and her eyes were swollen from crying. For a long time, I stood at the doorway, torn between pride and pity.

Finally, I sat across from her. The silence was suffocating, but I broke it.

“Why do you hate my parents?” I asked quietly.

Her head shot up. “I don’t hate them,” she said quickly, almost defensively.

“Yes, you do,” I said firmly. “From the very beginning, you never gave them a chance. You pushed them away, treated them like strangers, while you showered your own parents with love. Why?”

Her lips quivered. She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers nervously. Then, slowly, the truth began to spill.

“Because I felt judged,” she whispered. “From the first day I met them, I felt like I wasn’t enough. Your mom has this way of looking at me, like I’ll never be good enough for her son. Your dad… he’s quiet, but I can feel his disappointment. I hated feeling small in their presence. So I built walls. Coldness was my shield.”

Her voice cracked as she continued. “But it wasn’t fair. I punished them for my insecurities. I punished you too. And now… now I’m being punished back.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and for the first time in months, my anger began to soften. I had waited so long to hear her admit this, but now that she had, I felt no triumph—only sorrow.

I leaned forward. “Do you know what your coldness did to me? Every time you rolled out the red carpet for your Dad and left mine standing in the dust, it broke me. You made me feel like my parents didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. That’s why I started mirroring you. I wanted you to feel my pain.”

She nodded slowly, tears dripping onto her lap. “And I did. Oh God, I did. When you ignored my Dad’s calls, when you brushed off his birthday, when you refused to visit him in the hospital… it felt like knives in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. And then I realized—this is what I’ve been doing to you all along.”

Her sobs filled the room. For a long time, we sat in silence, two wounded hearts finally seeing each other clearly.

Then I reached across the table and took her trembling hands.

“No more wars,” I said softly. “No more teaching lessons. From now on, your Dad and my Dad will be honored the same. Both of them. Always.”

She lifted her face, eyes red, and whispered, “I’m sorry. Truly. I’ll make it right.”

And for the first time in years, I believed her.

Two weeks later, we invited both families for Sunday lunch. My wife cooked like her life depended on it—jollof rice, egusi, grilled chicken, salads, fruit platters. She greeted my parents warmly at the door, hugging my mother so tightly that even my mom’s eyes misted.

When her father walked in, she treated him with the same love as always—but this time, the love wasn’t exclusive. It was shared. Balanced.

I watched her flit between the two Dads, making sure each of them was comfortable, their plates full, their glasses topped. And for the first time, I saw what harmony could look like.

At one point, I caught her eyes from across the room. She smiled at me, a soft, apologetic smile, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand later as we cleared the table. “No more lessons,” I whispered. “Just love.”

She nodded. “Just love.”

Marriage isn’t about winning. It isn’t about who suffers more, or who gets the upper hand. It’s about breaking down walls, even when it hurts. It’s about realizing that love cannot thrive where pride builds a fortress.

My wife and I nearly destroyed each other trying to prove points. But in the end, we learned the hardest truth:

Respect must be mutual. Love must be shared. And in-laws—whether hers or mine—are family all the same.

And that day, as both Dads sat at the same table, laughing over plates of food, I knew one thing for sure:

We had finally chosen peace over war.

The End.........
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20/09/2025

The night her father was discharged from the hospital, my wife didn’t come to bed.

I found her sitting alone in the living room, hugging her knees like a child. The glow of the lamp threw shadows across her face, and her eyes were swollen from crying. For a long time, I stood at the doorway, torn between pride and pity.

Finally, I sat across from her. The silence was suffocating, but I broke it.

“Why do you hate my parents?” I asked quietly.

Her head shot up. “I don’t hate them,” she said quickly, almost defensively.

“Yes, you do,” I said firmly. “From the very beginning, you never gave them a chance. You pushed them away, treated them like strangers, while you showered your own parents with love. Why?”

Her lips quivered. She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers nervously. Then, slowly, the truth began to spill.

“Because I felt judged,” she whispered. “From the first day I met them, I felt like I wasn’t enough. Your mom has this way of looking at me, like I’ll never be good enough for her son. Your dad… he’s quiet, but I can feel his disappointment. I hated feeling small in their presence. So I built walls. Coldness was my shield.”

Her voice cracked as she continued. “But it wasn’t fair. I punished them for my insecurities. I punished you too. And now… now I’m being punished back.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and for the first time in months, my anger began to soften. I had waited so long to hear her admit this, but now that she had, I felt no triumph—only sorrow.

I leaned forward. “Do you know what your coldness did to me? Every time you rolled out the red carpet for your Dad and left mine standing in the dust, it broke me. You made me feel like my parents didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. That’s why I started mirroring you. I wanted you to feel my pain.”

She nodded slowly, tears dripping onto her lap. “And I did. Oh God, I did. When you ignored my Dad’s calls, when you brushed off his birthday, when you refused to visit him in the hospital… it felt like knives in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. And then I realized—this is what I’ve been doing to you all along.”

Her sobs filled the room. For a long time, we sat in silence, two wounded hearts finally seeing each other clearly.

Then I reached across the table and took her trembling hands.

“No more wars,” I said softly. “No more teaching lessons. From now on, your Dad and my Dad will be honored the same. Both of them. Always.”

She lifted her face, eyes red, and whispered, “I’m sorry. Truly. I’ll make it right.”

And for the first time in years, I believed her.

Two weeks later, we invited both families for Sunday lunch. My wife cooked like her life depended on it—jollof rice, egusi, grilled chicken, salads, fruit platters. She greeted my parents warmly at the door, hugging my mother so tightly that even my mom’s eyes misted.

When her father walked in, she treated him with the same love as always—but this time, the love wasn’t exclusive. It was shared. Balanced.

I watched her flit between the two Dads, making sure each of them was comfortable, their plates full, their glasses topped. And for the first time, I saw what harmony could look like.

At one point, I caught her eyes from across the room. She smiled at me, a soft, apologetic smile, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand later as we cleared the table. “No more lessons,” I whispered. “Just love.”

She nodded. “Just love.”

Marriage isn’t about winning. It isn’t about who suffers more, or who gets the upper hand. It’s about breaking down walls, even when it hurts. It’s about realizing that love cannot thrive where pride builds a fortress.

My wife and I nearly destroyed each other trying to prove points. But in the end, we learned the hardest truth:

Respect must be mutual. Love must be shared. And in-laws—whether hers or mine—are family all the same.

And that day, as both Dads sat at the same table, laughing over plates of food, I knew one thing for sure:

We had finally chosen peace over war.

The End.......
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20/09/2025

I Slept Hungry Until a Billionaire Texted Me by Mistake
EPISODE 4

Days turned into weeks and each day he came back, sometimes with food, sometimes with clothes for my baby, sometimes with nothing but himself and that was enough. The neighbors whispered, some out of envy, some out of suspicion, but I didn’t care, because for the first time since my life fell apart, I felt seen. Yet deep down, I feared it was too good to last. My fear became reality one evening when a black SUV pulled up instead of his usual car. Two well-dressed women stepped out—one older with a hard face, the other younger with fire in her eyes. They stormed into my small room as if they owned the place. “Stay away from him,” the older woman hissed. “He’s a billionaire, he doesn’t belong in this gutter, especially not with you.” My baby whimpered, sensing my fear, and I held him tightly. Before I could speak, the younger one shouted, “He’s my fiancé, you shameless woman!” My chest tightened—so this was the reality I had dreaded. Tears stung my eyes as I stood frozen, powerless. But then his car pulled up, and he walked in, his face dark with fury. “Enough!” His voice thundered, silencing them. He turned to the younger woman. “You were never my fiancée, just a business arrangement my family tried to force on me.” Then he looked at his mother, the older woman, and said with a steel voice, “You of all people should understand—because you were once poor too before Dad rescued you. Don’t you dare look down on her.”

He crossed the room and stood in front of me, his hand finding mine, steady and strong. “She’s the woman I choose. She’s the one who healed a part of me I thought was dead.” My knees weakened at his words, my tears flowing freely. His mother gasped, furious, but his grip on me never wavered. “If you can’t accept her, then you’ll lose me too,” he declared. The two women stormed out, leaving silence and a thousand emotions behind. I looked at him through blurry eyes. “Why would you risk everything for me?” I whispered. He smiled softly, brushing away my tears. “Because the night you replied to my message, you saved me more than I saved you. I was drowning in a life of money without meaning, and you gave me a reason to breathe again.” My chest heaved with sobs as I clutched my baby, and he took us both into his arms, holding us like he never wanted to let go.

Weeks later, he moved us into his mansion, but instead of shame, I carried pride because I walked in not as a beggar but as the woman he chose against all odds. He gave my baby his name, raising him as his own, and for the first time my child knew the warmth of a father’s love. Nights were filled with laughter, days with peace, and slowly, the cracks in my heart began to heal. And then, on a quiet evening, under the golden glow of chandeliers, he knelt before me, holding a ring. My breath caught as tears filled my eyes. “I found you in hunger, in pain, in darkness,” he said, his voice trembling, “but I want to spend my life making sure you never know that suffering again. Will you marry me?” My voice broke as I whispered, “Yes.” The room erupted with joy, but all I saw was him, the man who came to me by mistake but turned out to be the miracle I had been waiting for.

As he slid the ring onto my finger, my baby clapped his tiny hands, giggling like he understood. In that moment, I knew that sometimes, even in the deepest hunger and hopelessness, life can send you an angel disguised as a stranger’s text. And that night, as he kissed me gently under the glow of the stars peeking through the windows, I realized I was no longer the poor girl who slept hungry—I was the woman who was found, loved, and saved by a billionaire who became my forever.

The end..........

20/09/2025

I Slept Hungry Until a Billionaire Texted Me by Mistake
EPISODE 3

That night I couldn’t sleep, my mind kept replaying every second of what had happened earlier, the way he looked at me, the way he held my baby like he had known him forever, the way his fingers brushed my cheek and left my skin burning with a feeling I had long forgotten, a feeling that terrified and comforted me at the same time. I whispered prayers into the silence, asking God if this was real or just another cruel joke life was about to play on me. The next day I tried to push the thought of him aside, but by afternoon I heard the sound of the same car horn outside again and my heart skipped a beat. I rushed out, and there he was, stepping out of the car, carrying another bag of groceries. “I told you I’d be back,” he said, his voice calm but his eyes searching me like he was trying to read my entire life story. I wanted to hide, to cover the shame of my poverty, but something in me wanted to run into his arms and cry out everything I had held in for years. He followed me inside, and as he looked around at the broken walls and leaking roof, his jaw tightened, not in disgust but in pain, like my suffering wounded him personally. My baby laughed at the sight of him and stretched his tiny hands towards him, and I couldn’t believe how quickly my child had grown fond of a stranger. He lifted him up again, playing with him, and for the first time in forever, the sound of joy filled my house. Tears blurred my vision as I watched them, a billionaire and my baby, like two pieces of my world that should never have crossed yet somehow fit perfectly.

I cooked with the little he brought, and for the first time we ate without fear of running out. After the meal, he sat down, loosened his tie, and leaned back like he finally found a place to breathe. “Tell me about you,” he said softly, his gaze locking onto mine. At first I hesitated, ashamed of my story, but his eyes gave me courage. I told him about my past, how I was abandoned by the man who fathered my child, how my family turned against me, how I ended up here, fighting every day just to feed a little mouth that never asked to be born. I tried to laugh through the pain but my voice broke, and suddenly his hand was on mine, steady, warm, sending a storm through my veins. “You don’t deserve this pain,” he whispered. My heart pounded wildly, and I looked away, afraid he would see the hunger in my eyes that wasn’t for food but for love, for care, for him.

Then, as though reading my silence, he said, “I was once poor too.” My head snapped up in shock, because nothing about him looked like someone who had tasted hunger. But as he spoke, his eyes turned distant, haunted. He told me of losing his parents young, of sleeping on the streets, of starving until one kind stranger gave him his first chance. He had built everything from nothing, and though the world now saw him as untouchable, his scars still lived inside him. The vulnerability in his voice made me ache, and for a moment the air between us shifted—we were no longer a poor girl and a billionaire, we were just two broken souls searching for warmth. Silence fell, heavy and charged, and I realized he was still holding my hand. Our eyes met, and the world outside seemed to vanish. My breath caught as he slowly leaned closer, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes, asking for a permission he didn’t speak aloud. My heart screamed yes, but fear pulled me back—I turned away, clutching my baby who had just drifted to sleep beside me. “I can’t…” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. He drew back immediately, respect and longing battling in his gaze. “I’ll wait,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotions I couldn’t decipher.

As he stood to leave, he looked at me one last time and said, “You don’t know it yet, but you’ve already changed me.” I stood frozen as he walked out, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it would wake my baby. That night I lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, my soul torn between fear of being hurt again and the dangerous hope that maybe, just maybe, love had finally found me in the most unexpected way.

To be continued............

20/09/2025

I Slept Hungry Until a Billionaire Texted Me by Mistake
Episode 2

The next morning I woke up with swollen eyes, not from sleep but from the tears I cried all night. My baby was still sleeping peacefully beside me, his tiny hand resting on my chest as if he was holding me together while I was falling apart. My phone buzzed again, and for a second my heart raced—maybe it was that strange number from last night. I quickly grabbed it, and indeed it was him. “Are you awake? Tell me where you live, I want to send something to you.” My heart stopped. Nobody had ever cared about me enough to ask me something like that. I didn’t want to believe he was real, I didn’t want to hope, because hope had always betrayed me. But something in his words felt different, like there was a weight of sincerity behind them. I didn’t respond immediately, I was scared—what if it was a trick, what if someone was mocking my pain? Hours passed before I gathered the courage to reply. “I don’t need much… I just need food for my baby,” I typed with trembling fingers. His reply came almost instantly: “I asked for your location, not what you need.” My breath caught in my throat. He was serious. I gave him the address of the tiny uncompleted building I had been squatting in, though shame burned my heart as I pressed send. What if he truly came? What if he saw me in this wretched condition and turned away?

By afternoon I heard the sound of a car horn outside, a sound too refined for the slums where I lived. My neighbors peeked from their windows, curiosity flooding their faces as a sleek black car stopped in front of the broken building. My knees weakened as I held my baby close, not knowing what to expect. The door of the car opened and I saw him—a tall man, sharply dressed in a black suit, with an aura that screamed power and wealth. His eyes scanned the environment until they found me standing at the doorway, barefoot, holding my baby in my tattered wrapper. His gaze softened, and in that moment I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I felt too dirty for him, too unworthy. He walked closer, and my legs almost gave way. “You’re the one who replied to my message?” he asked, his deep voice calm yet commanding. I nodded, my lips unable to form words. He looked at the baby in my arms and something shifted in his eyes, like a hidden wound was touched. Without a word, he handed me a bag. It was heavy, filled with food, milk, and even clothes. My tears flowed uncontrollably as I clutched it to my chest. “Why… why are you helping me?” I finally whispered. He looked at me with an unreadable expression, then said, “Because once upon a time, I had no one to help me when I needed it most. I don’t want to see you go through that.”

His words pierced my soul. My baby stirred, opening his eyes and letting out a soft cry, and instinctively the billionaire reached out his hand as though he wanted to hold him. For a second, I hesitated—nobody ever touched my baby, nobody except me. But something about the way he looked at my child made me trust him against my will. I let him take the baby, and to my surprise, he held him with such gentleness that it broke me inside. My baby, usually fussy with strangers, settled calmly in his arms as if he belonged there. A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t realize tears were streaming down my face until he reached out with his free hand and wiped them away, his touch burning through me with a strange mix of tenderness and fire. Our eyes locked, and for the first time in years, I felt something I thought had died inside me—hope.

But before I could say anything, a voice called from the car. “Sir, we’re running late for the meeting.” He turned his head slightly, then looked back at me. “I have to go, but I’ll be back. Don’t run away from me.” With that, he placed my baby back in my arms and walked to his car. I watched as the sleek vehicle disappeared down the dusty road, leaving me trembling, my heart racing faster than it ever had. I clutched my baby tightly, whispering to him, “Our lives are about to change, I can feel it.” Yet deep down, fear crept in—because whenever happiness came close to me, it always seemed to slip away.

To be continued.........

20/09/2025

I Slept Hungry Until a Billionaire Texted Me by Mistake

The night it all began, my stomach growled louder than the old ceiling fan turning above my head, and the emptiness inside me felt like knives tearing through my chest. My name is Mariam, a 23-year-old final-year student who thought life would be brighter once I entered university, but instead it pushed me deeper into poverty than I ever imagined. My father died when I was little, my mother sells firewood in the market, and sometimes she goes days without making enough to feed us. That night, I had walked back to my small room after hours of standing in front of a kiosk, hoping to be given some leftover bread for free, but the shopkeeper shook his head, saying he had nothing left. I smiled weakly and whispered, “It’s okay,” but as I turned away, my eyes burned with tears. I was so hungry I felt dizzy. Back in my room, I lay on the thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling, whispering a prayer to God: “Ya Allah, if You can hear me, please, just give me one meal tonight, just one.” My phone buzzed beside me, and for a second I thought it was my mother. But when I picked it up, I saw an unknown number flashing on the screen with a message that made no sense: “Transfer the 50 million immediately, I’m waiting.” I blinked, confused. It was a text clearly not meant for me. I wanted to ignore it, but curiosity forced me to reply: “Sorry, wrong number.” A moment later, another message came in: “Who is this? Why are you replying?” My fingers trembled as I typed: “I’m just a student. You sent me a message by mistake.” Then silence. I dropped the phone beside me, clutching my stomach as hunger twisted like a rope inside me. But just as I was about to drift into restless sleep, another text came: “Student? At this hour? Why are you awake?” I hesitated, then typed back: “Because I’m hungry, and hunger doesn’t let people sleep.” I regretted sending it immediately, embarrassed, but it was the truth. Minutes passed, and then another text arrived: “Where are you? Do you have food?” My heart raced. Who was this stranger? I didn’t want pity, but the ache in my stomach made me reply: “No. I’ve not eaten since yesterday.” Silence again. My phone’s screen dimmed. I shut my eyes, telling myself not to expect anything. But then, just as my tears slipped down my cheek, a message popped up: “Stay awake. I’ll fix this.” I sat up, confused, staring at the glowing screen. Who was he? Why did he sound so commanding, so sure? Within thirty minutes, there was a knock at my door. My heart almost leapt out of my chest. At this time of night, who could it be? Fear and hunger wrestled inside me, but when I opened the door slightly, I saw a delivery man standing there with two large food packs and bottled water. “For Mariam?” he asked. My lips trembled as I whispered, “Yes… but who sent it?” He smiled, “A certain Mr. Khalid. He said you’ll understand.” I didn’t know any Khalid. My knees felt weak as I carried the food inside. The aroma of fried rice, chicken, and stew filled my tiny room, and tears poured down my face. I hadn’t eaten like this in months. As I ate with shaking hands, my phone vibrated again. “Did you get it?” I typed back with tears dripping on the screen: “Yes. Thank you. I don’t know who you are, but may God bless you.” His reply came instantly: “Don’t thank me yet. You’ll hear from me tomorrow.” I didn’t know that Khalid wasn’t just anyone—he was one of the youngest billionaires in the country, and that single mistaken text would drag me into a world of wealth, power, betrayal, and a kind of love I never believed could exist for someone like me.

To be continued.........

20/09/2025

Her Father Married Her Off to a Beggar Because She Was Born Blind – What Happened Next Left Everyone Speechless

Zainab had never seen the world, but she could feel its cruelty with every breath she took. She was born blind into a family that valued beauty above all else.

Her two sisters were admired for their captivating eyes and elegant figures, while Zainab was treated like a burden—a shameful secret kept behind closed doors. Her mother died when she was only five, and from then on, her father changed. He became bitter, resentful, and cruel, especially toward her. He never called her by her name; he called her “that thing.” He didn’t want her at the family dinner table or anywhere near when visitors came. He believed she was cursed. And when Zainab turned 21, he made a decision that would destroy what was left of her already broken heart.

One morning, her father entered her small room where Zainab sat quietly, her fingers gliding over the braille pages of an old, worn-out book, and dropped a folded piece of fabric in her lap.
“You’re getting married tomorrow,” he said flatly.

Zainab froze. The words didn’t make sense. Getting married? To whom?
“He’s a beggar from the mosque,” her father continued. “You’re blind, he’s poor. A good match for you.”

It felt like the blood drained from her face. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. She had no choice. Her father never gave her choices.

The next day, she was married in a small, rushed ceremony. Of course, she never saw his face, and no one dared describe him to her. Her father shoved her toward the man and told her to take his arm. She obeyed, like a ghost in her own body. Everyone laughed behind their hands, whispering, “The blind girl and the beggar.” After the ceremony, her father handed her a small bag of clothes and pushed her toward the man again.

“She’s your problem now,” he said and walked away without looking back.

The beggar, whose name was Yusha, led her silently down the road. He didn’t say a word for a long time. They reached a small broken-down hut on the edge of the village. It smelled of damp earth and smoke.

“It’s not much,” Yusha said gently. “But you’ll be safe here.”

She sat on the old mat inside, holding back tears. This was her life now. A blind girl married to a beggar in a hut made of mud and hope.

But something strange happened that first night.

Yusha made tea with gentle hands. He gave her his own coat and slept near the door, like a guard dog protecting his queen. He spoke to her like he truly cared—asking what stories she liked, what dreams she had, what food made her smile. No one had ever asked her anything like that before.

Days turned into weeks. Yusha would walk her to the river every morning, describing the sun, the birds, the trees with such poetry that Zainab began to feel like she could see them through his words. He sang to her as she washed clothes and told her stories of stars and faraway lands at night. She laughed for the first time in years. Her heart began to open. And in that strange little hut, something unexpected happened—Zainab fell in love.

One afternoon, as she reached for his hand, she asked, “Were you always a beggar?”........

To be continued...........

20/09/2025

MY HUSBAND USED PACKET TO SLEEP WITH ME… BUT SOMETHING FELT WRONG

> “Please, babe… not without it.”

Those were the first words my husband said to me on our wedding night.

No “I love you.”
No passionate kiss.
No trembling hands in soft anticipation.
Just… a cold sentence.

> “Let me wear a condom first.”

At first, I laughed.

Gently. Confused.

> “What? Why?”

He kissed my forehead.

> “Just for tonight. Safety first.”

I smiled. I trusted him. Why wouldn’t I?

After all, this was the man who paid for my master’s degree.
The one who wooed my entire family.
Who sat with my mother in the hospital for three nights straight.
Who looked my father in the eye and said:

> “I will love her like air. And protect her like my soul.”

So that night, I said nothing.

But something felt… off.

Not just the latex.
Not just the silence afterward.
But the way he turned away and sighed when it was over.
Like he had ticked a box and couldn’t wait for it to be done.

Still, I brushed it off.

> “Maybe he’s tired.”
“Maybe it’s just nerves.”
“Maybe marriage isn’t supposed to feel magical every night.”

But that was the beginning.

One week turned to one month.

Every time, the condom came out.

Branded. Imported. Hidden in a box under his side of the bed.

> “Can’t we try without it?” I asked one day, a little shy.

> “Not yet,” he replied, without looking up from his laptop.

> “Are you… not ready for kids?”

He nodded.

> “Not now. Not yet. Let's enjoy ourselves first.”

But we weren’t “enjoying.”

We weren’t even connecting.

At night, I lay next to a man I barely recognized anymore.

The charming, poetic, “I’ll-carry-you-on-my-back” Korede I fell in love with…
was now a stranger.

Polite.
Present.
But cold.

And he never slept without protection.

Even when I begged.

Even when I wept softly beside him after the fourth month.

I started doubting myself.

> “Maybe I’m the problem.”
“Maybe I’m not attractive enough.”
“Maybe he just wants to be careful.”

But deep down, I knew it was more than that.

We’d never had a real fight.

Never screamed.
Never broke plates.
Never cursed each other out like the movies.

But silence?

Silence was the third person in our bedroom.

It got worse.

He started coming home late.

Staying in the study.

Saying things like:

> “Work’s just crazy.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Let’s not talk about this now.”

And when I tried to bring up children again…

He sighed.

Like I was interrupting some grand plan.

> “Just wait,” he said.
“Stop pressuring me.”

But I wasn’t pressuring him.

I was begging to be seen.

To be loved.
To be touched without barriers.
To feel like his wife — not his tenant.

Then one night, I found a receipt in his jacket pocket.

Hotel.
Room 407.
Two hours.
9pm-11pm.

He told me he was working late that night.

I stared at the paper until my vision blurred.

I didn’t confront him.

Not yet.

I needed to understand what I was fighting against.

Was it another woman?

A medical issue?

A secret past?

Or something… else?

But I noticed one thing.

He always kept his phone face-down.
He locked his drawers.
And he never let me wash his clothes anymore.

That was when I knew.

I was married…

But I was not a wife.

Still, I stayed.

Because I loved him.
Because I needed answers.
Because I wasn’t ready to give up without knowing the full truth.

But truth is a slow knife.

And some nights, it cuts deeper than any lie.

Last night, I waited for him.

He came home at 11:45pm.

Smelling like fresh cologne.

Carrying a bag that wasn’t his.

He smiled like nothing was wrong.

But I saw it…

A faint red mark on his neck.

Not mine.

And then he leaned down to kiss me and whispered:

> “One day… I’ll explain everything.”

TBC.......

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