When we were trying for a baby, I cheated on my husband. If I tell you who I cheated with, you’ll open your mouth in shock. I’m not proud of it, but that’s what happened.

After marriage, we were still living apart because of work. My husband was working to get a transfer so he could come and live with me. I would travel to his place every weekend during the first year of our marriage. I desperately wanted to conceive, but it didn’t happen.

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During the second year of our marriage, I went to visit him only when I was ovulating. The rest of the time, he came to visit me. I would go to his place on a weekday when I was supposed to be at work just to sleep with him, hoping that would result in a pregnancy. It never did. I started getting worried that there could be something wrong with one of us.

I got myself checked at the hospital to be sure. They said I was fine. I started telling my husband to see a doctor. He didn’t mind me. For several months, I complained until he finally did it. He came to tell me he was fine. Then I told him we should both visit the doctor together and listen to what they had to say. It became a problem. He didn’t want to do it, calling it expensive and a waste of money.

Three years after marriage, we were still living apart, and the fact that we hadn’t been able to conceive after all those years bothered me. I’d spent my leave with him on several occasions, doing it until we were too tired to continue, yet nothing happened. So I decided to visit our pastor to share my problems with him.

He wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t a pastor I had heard about in the news and decided to visit. This was the pastor of our church—the same pastor who officiated our wedding. He had the gift of healing and foresight. I’d seen him stretch out his hands over people, and they received healing. I was sick too. Being unable to conceive when everything appeared normal biologically felt like a sickness, so I went to see him.

I shared our struggles candidly with him, and he started praying with me and encouraging me to remain steadfast. Visiting him often and having him lay his hands on me each time gradually changed the way I thought. I didn’t know he liked me, but one day, a visit turned sexual, and it happened. I was so desperate to know I was okay that I wanted him to impregnate me so I could prove to myself that I was capable of conceiving.

It happened a second time. A third time. And a fourth. Each time, I was convinced I was going to get pregnant, but it never happened. I eventually called it a waste of sin and pulled away from him. At that point in my life, I wasn’t only frustrated—I was devastated too.

Eventually, my husband got the transfer we had been praying for, and he came to live with me after four solid years of marriage. It was the happiest day of our married life. Our marriage suddenly felt brand new. I slept next to him, knowing I wouldn’t wake up the next day only to travel away from him. It felt permanent. Just two months of living together, and I got pregnant.

The happiness was overwhelming. I could feel a sweetness inside me and a new sense of fulfillment that I was indeed a woman who was capable of conceiving. But that happiness didn’t last. I miscarried the pregnancy a few weeks later. The joy disappeared, and in its place came suicidal thoughts.

My husband would take me to the same pastor I had cheated with so he could pray for my healing and encourage me. That pastor is an actor. He missed his calling. While guilt was killing me, he acted as though I wasn’t the same woman he had slept with in that same office where he was now offering prayers and counseling for us.

It took another year for me to get pregnant again. I was measured in my happiness and very careful with my optimism. But slowly and gradually, the pregnancy survived. It took carrying it for seven months before I believed nothing was going to happen.

A year ago, while the world was asleep, I went into labor. It was peaceful and very gentle. My husband took me to the hospital, and they began the delivery process. My dilation was very slow and inconsistent. The pain was unbearable, but finally I did it. She was a girl. Eight days later, I lost her.

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I still haven’t healed. I still cry. When my heart broke, it never mended. I still walk around with raw wounds. But then it occurred to me one day, “Are you not going through this because you cheated on your husband? You know… consequences. Did you think you wouldn’t pay for your actions? You should.”

My husband is also very frustrated, especially because it’s been a year and he’s still trying, without success, to get me pregnant again. He’s still trying, but I’ve given up. I deserve this pain and everything I’m going through. I’ve learned to make peace with it, believing that maybe until I confess, I’ll never experience the happiness of carrying my baby in my arms.

—Paulina 

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