06/09/2025
I was in the kitchen that afternoon, stirring a pot of stew, when my phone rang. At first, I thought it was one of my children calling, but when I looked at the screen, it was a strange number. My fingers hesitated before answering.
“Hello?” I said softly.
A woman’s voice came through, low but urgent. “Madam, you need to come to your husband’s office right now.”
My heart skipped. I frowned and asked, “Who is this? What happened?”
But she cut me short. “No time for questions. Just come if you love your marriage.” And before I could say another word, the line went dead.
I stood frozen for a few seconds, the phone still in my hand, my chest tightening. I left the pot of stew boiling on the fire and rushed out without even locking the door properly. My mind was racing faster than my feet. What could have happened? Did my husband collapse? Was he in danger? Or… was it something else?
The drive to his office felt endless. My palms were sweaty on the steering wheel. Every red light, every slow car in front of me felt like punishment. My heart pounded so loud I could hear it in my ears.
When I finally arrived, the security man at the gate looked at me with an expression I will never forget. It wasn’t the usual respectful smile he gave me. This time, his eyes were filled with pity. He didn’t say a word—he just pointed upstairs. My legs turned to stone, but somehow they carried me forward.
Each step up the staircase felt like walking into fire. My breath was shaky, my hands trembling. When I reached the door, I didn’t knock. Something inside me told me I needed to see the truth for myself.
I pushed the door open—and the sight before me almost killed me.
There, on the sofa, my husband was naked. His secretary was straddling him, both of them lost in betrayal until my scream shattered the room.
“Chike!” I screamed his name so loud the walls shook.
They both jumped like guilty children caught in the act. My husband stammered, “It’s… it’s not what you think!”
I shouted through tears, “Not what I think? What else is it?!”
The secretary fell to her knees, tears spilling as she begged, “Please, madam, forgive me. It was a mistake.”
My husband, the man I trusted, also knelt down, his face dripping with sweat as if hot water had been poured over him. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.
I turned around and walked out before my legs gave way. My body was shaking so badly I didn’t know how I made it to the car, let alone how I drove home. My eyes were full of tears, the world around me a blur.
That night, when he finally came home, the house was filled with silence. He didn’t shout. He didn’t argue. He simply sat beside me, whispering, “I’m sorry. It will never happen again.” He tried to touch me, but I pushed him away. His apology felt like dust in my ears.
For days, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. My chest carried a weight that crushed me every second. Each time I remembered the image of him with her, I felt like dying. I would sit on the bed staring into space, tears rolling without end.
When my mother came to visit and I told her everything, she sighed deeply. Her words pierced my heart. “My daughter, men are like that. Don’t destroy your home because of this. Focus on your children.”
I stared at her in disbelief. So my pain didn’t matter? My broken trust didn’t matter? I kept quiet, but inside, fire was burning. I felt betrayed not just by my husband, but by the very culture that excused his betrayal.
One evening, I decided to test him. I told him I was traveling to my sister’s place for a week. I packed a small bag, hugged my children, and left. But instead of going to my sister’s, I checked into a small hotel nearby. My heart told me the truth was not finished revealing itself.
By the second night, my worst fears came alive. My neighbor called me in a hushed voice, “Madam, your husband has brought that secretary into your house.”
My whole body went cold. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone.
Without thinking, I rushed back. The house that once felt like home now felt like an enemy. I pushed the bedroom door open, and there they were again—this time in my matrimonial bed.
But this time, I didn’t cry. I laughed. A bitter, painful laugh that echoed in the room.
My husband jumped up, shocked. “What… what are you doing here?” he stammered.
I looked at him with eyes that no longer held love. “You’ve made your choice. Both of you deserve each other.”
I packed my things in silence. He begged. He cried. But his words were empty now. I was done.
The next morning, I left with my children. I filed for divorce without looking back. I blocked his number, his messages, even the people he sent to beg me. My heart was gone.
Today, I am slowly rebuilding my life. It is not easy. Some nights, the loneliness creeps in. Some mornings, the memories cut deep. But each day, I remind myself: my peace is priceless.
I have learned something important. Forgiveness is not the same as foolishness. Some wounds do not heal when you stay. They only heal when you walk away.
And walking away was the best decision I ever made.
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