My second miscarriage happened at dawn. A sharp pain shot through my abdomen, followed by what felt like a twisted bowel. My husband was lying next to me. I clutched his arm, digging my nails into his skin. He screamed, “What is wrong with you?”

When I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital. My husband stood like a tower beside my bed, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, as though he hadn’t slept in years. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I felt embarrassed, as if my body was a graveyard where the life he gave me went to die. I cried silently while he stood still, looking away to hide his teary eyes.

He assured me it was alright. I asked, “Are we ever going to have a baby?” This was our second miscarriage in five years of marriage. He remained hopeful, but I was not. Not anymore.

The first miscarriage happened after we’d visited the old folks. I ended up blaming them, convinced they had feasted on my baby spiritually. They were my family, yet I couldn’t trust their intentions.

When the second miscarriage happened two years later, I desperately sought someone to blame. But no one knew we were pregnant except God, so I looked up and said, “If it’s your will for us not to have a child, don’t give us one and then take it back in the night while we sleep. The pain is too much.”

A heavy silence descended upon us when we returned home from the hospital. In the car, we didn’t exchange a word. At home, he helped me out of the car and into our room, still saying nothing. I didn’t know what to say, and perhaps he didn’t know where to begin. For over a week, we lived in quiet grief.

Finally, I broke the silence, asking, “Are you thinking of a second wife?”

He burst out laughing. I laughed too, despite the pain. “Wives aren’t numbers you shop for when the first one has a fault,” he said. “A second wife? For what exactly?”

It took two more years before I got pregnant again. When I found out, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I didn’t know whom to trust—not even God. I was paranoid. Though I’d always been a prayerful woman, I stopped praying, afraid that if God knew, He might take this one too, just to test our faith.

The symptoms were unmistakable: fatigue, dizziness, loss of appetite, and mood swings. My husband asked, “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

I shook my head, denying it even before he finished. “Pregnant? No, I’m just not feeling well.”

They say pregnancy can’t stay hidden forever, but I was determined to be the first woman to hide hers until delivery. My plan was simple: one day, my husband would return from work to find a baby in our bed. I didn’t want to burden him with hope, only to drag him back into despair.

He knew, though. He was certain but waited patiently until I was four months along before saying anything. By then, I felt a cautious sense of safety—the other pregnancies hadn’t lasted this long.

This one stayed. It was the easiest pregnancy I’d ever carried. I gave birth to a beautiful boy, who is now almost eight years old. He was four when he started asking for a sister. He didn’t know our story, didn’t understand the miracle of his own life, and so couldn’t grasp why he should be grateful.

My Mom Doesn’t Care How I Make The Money I Send To Her


We’ve tried every day since his birth to have another child, but we’ve been unsuccessful. My husband has quietly accepted our situation, but I haven’t given up hope. When our son asks for a sister, I believe that in due time, she will come.

Even so, I remain deeply grateful. I often ask myself, “What if we had lost this one too? Would that have been the end of the road for us?”

These thoughts keep me grounded in gratitude and fill me with hope. It’s only one child, but from one, a nation can be born. We just need to trust and obey.

— Lovelace

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