28/06/2025
I married Richard Adewale, the billionaire tech mogul, in a wedding that trended on social media for a week.
But while the world called me lucky, no one saw what happened after the wedding.
The morning after our honeymoon, I was woken up by his mother, Mrs. Adewale, barging into our bedroom at 6:15 AM with a tray of hot bitter leaf tea.
“For fertility,” she said like it was normal to walk into a married couple’s room.
Richard didn’t flinch.
“I’ve always given him this,” she added with a soft laugh, placing it on my side of the bed.
It was then I realized:
I was not the queen of this house.
She was.
From the curtains to the cooking, she controlled everything.
When I tried to change the throw pillows in the living room, she replaced them by evening.
She told the chef what to cook, told the cleaners how to scrub, and even told me how to speak to her son in public.
“You must never contradict him outside,” she whispered with a fake smile. “People are watching.”
I tried to talk to Richard.
“I feel like a visitor in my own marriage,” I said.
He shrugged. “Babe, it’s just her way. She’s used to taking care of things. Don’t take it personally.”
But I was taking it personally.
Because I was the one being erased.
One afternoon, I overheard her in the kitchen telling one of the house staff:
> “She’s lucky my son married her. If it were up to me, I would’ve chosen someone cultured. Someone useful.”
That night at dinner, she served Richard herself, smiled at me and said, “I’ve always known what he likes to eat—long before you came.”
I looked at my husband, waiting for him to say something.
He didn’t.
He just kept eating.
My chest tightened.
That night, I cried alone in the guest room… the one she insisted we “keep tidy for guests” but felt more like a corner prepared for me—when I’d finally give up and leave.
And maybe, just maybe… I was ready to.
I packed a weekend bag and left for my sister’s house. I didn’t leave a note.
Six hours later, Richard called.
“Where are you?”
> “Somewhere I can breathe.”
He came that night, confused, frustrated, and worried. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way?”
“I did,” I said. “You just didn’t listen.”
He fell silent.
“I married you, Richard. Not your mother. But every decision in our home has her stamp on it. I’m tired of being polite while I’m being erased.”
His voice cracked.
> “I thought keeping her happy would keep the peace…”
“And instead, you’re losing me in your silence.”
He broke down.
And for once, I didn’t hold him.
I needed him to feel what silence had cost us.
The next week, Richard moved his mother into a luxurious penthouse apartment—close enough for visits, but far enough to give us peace.
He hired a marriage counselor. He told his mother firmly,
> “This is our home. I love you. But my wife is not your project.”
Her pride was wounded, but for the first time, she respected me. Or at least, learned to hide her disapproval.
Our home began to feel like ours.
We redecorated.
We prayed together again.
And one evening, Richard came to me with a handwritten letter.
It said:
> “I failed you. But I’m ready to be your husband—not her son. Forgive me. And let’s build again.”
I kissed him softly.
Because I never stopped loving him.
I was just waiting…
For him to choose me, too.
💬 THE END
> Money doesn’t build a home. Boundaries do.
Love doesn’t survive in silence. It grows when we speak, act, and protect each other.
