Years ago, when we were dating, he called me on the phone, and he heard a lot of noise in the background. He asked if I was in the market, and I said, “Market? I’m in the house. As for this house, it’s always chaos in here ooo.”

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I moved away to where there was quiet, and we talked. That wasn’t the last time it happened. Anytime he called me, there was a fight around me, or with me, or with a stranger who had come to our house to cause commotion. So much so that when he called and there was quiet, he told me, “You’re not in the house, I guess.”

My parents had seven children. At one point, we were all in the house with little to eat and little to go around. It was the battle of the fittest—hence the fights. My parents fought in front of us; those my parents owed came to the house to fight with them. My brothers would go outside and steal something, and the ones they stole from would come around and cause a scene.

It was a long-distance relationship. When he visited the first time, I was too shy to take him home, but he told me, “You can’t hide your home no matter what. It’s all you have.”

That very day he was around, someone my mom owed entered the house to cause commotion. It was intentional. She lived nearby, so she saw when I entered with him and decided it was the perfect opportunity to get to my mom. My boyfriend paid her, and she left.

One day on the phone, he told me, “You’ve been through a lot, but I promise you, our house will be peaceful—I mean that kind of deafening peace.”

Seven years ago, he married me and took me away from the landmine I called a home to a place of calm. We struggled to have a child; he remained still and resolute. Loving. We went through hard times; he remained calm and embraced my shortcomings. We fought. We’ve had a lot of fights in our marriage, but he has never raised his voice at me. Most often, I’m unyielding—my childhood seeps through, and I go into survival mode—but he tells me, “I understand. It’s alright.”

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It was easy for me to take everything for granted until one day my childhood dawned on me. I remembered the noise, the chaos, the fights. I’d never experienced that since marriage. Then his promise flew in with a gentle fragrance—that promise he made that our home would be peaceful. He’s been doing just that for over seven years. Even when he had every reason to shout, he chose calm. He’s never shouted at any child around here. I wrote this to thank him for the kind of husband he is to me—for being my peace, for being the calm away from the chaos. Long may it continue, love.

He’ll read this when it’s published. I hope it makes him smile.

—Phyllis

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