We were married for six years. He died three days before our wedding anniversary while I was carrying our first child. It was his dream to have a baby girl as his first child because “ladies first.” Mine was to bring forth what pleased him after going through a lot together to have a child.

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While the world questioned why we hadn’t been able to have a child, he told everyone that we were enough. There was not a single day that I woke up worried about the fact that I didn’t have a child. He made life easy for me. He made me comfortable. He made himself my home, a place where I could hide when the world got hostile.

I lost a job, had a job, and lost it again, but I never had a reason to worry about money, sustenance, or life. He was always there, telling me life gets better when we live it a day at a time. When he wasn’t around, I felt lonely, but now I have to wake up every day to this silence, this emptiness surrounded by walls that say nothing to me.

I never once thought I was going to live this life for a day without him. I was next to his side when he called for water, with his hands placed on his chest. The time was 12:33 a.m. I turned on the light, and he was sweating. “Babe, what’s wrong with you?” I asked with a tone of fear. “My heart,” he answered.

It was the same heart he used to love me that failed him. I wish he never had a heart. Because if he didn’t, what could have failed?

I’d never driven a car with him sitting next to me, but that dawn, with my bulging tummy, I sat him next to me and drove him to the hospital. They put an oxygen mask on his face, but his breathing kept dropping. I was next to him all night.

In the morning, I went home to pick up the things he would need. I called his parents and his elder brother. By the time I got back to the hospital, they were there. My husband was asleep, his face peaceful. I was there all day until evening when they gave me a prescription to buy. I came back, and they were covering his face with the bedsheet. He was gone.

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He didn’t say goodbye or open his eyes to look at me once. “Life gets better when we live it a day at a time”—so why have I lived life since June, but the pain is still the same? When does it get better? When does this pain subside?

What I’m carrying is a girl. His dream has come to pass, but where is he to experience it?

—Mavis

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