If anyone had asked me two years ago what the safest part of my life was, I would have said my marriage. Without thinking twice. I believed in Ansah the way a child believes in their mother’s heartbeat; steady, warm, and forever present. We had built our life together brick by brick, promise by promise. Three children, a home, a future we planned with our eyes open. Then one morning, everything shifted. It started the day Ansah stopped going to work.

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He woke up, dressed halfway, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing as if the wall had said something to him. When I asked why he wasn’t leaving for the office, he said, “Company policy has changed. I’m working from home now.”

He said it too quickly. Too casually. But I loved my husband, so I didn’t press. For weeks he sat behind a laptop, clicking and typing, pretending to be busy. I would pass by the room and he would minimize screens so fast it nearly froze the computer. Again, I didn’t push. I thought maybe his company had adopted remote work. It happens.

But then I began noticing things. Ansah, my loud, playful, energetic husband became quiet. He moved like a man carrying a leaking secret. He smiled less. He sighed more. And I had lived with this man long enough to read him like an open book, so I knew something was wrong. When I finally cornered him one night and refused to let him dodge, the truth came out. He wasn’t working from home. He wasn’t working at all. He had been fired months earlier.

His reasons were flimsy. Something about restructuring. Something about his boss not liking him. Something about unfairness. But I didn’t question it. I simply said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got us. You’ll find another job soon.”

From then on, I became everything. I paid school fees and paid bills. I made sure he never felt small or felt like he was failing as a man. I even refused to let him do chores because I didn’t want him to feel like unemployment had reduced him. That was how far I went to protect his dignity.

We had a joint account. For convenience, I gave him the ATM card. “So you don’t have to ask me for little things,” I told him.

For over a year, the peace in the house was steady though he wasn’t working. All was well, I thought until I noticed another heaviness creeping in on Ansah. It kept growing, dripping into every corner of our life. He would sit alone in the dark. He would lock his phone when I entered the room. He would jump when I touched his shoulder unexpectedly. Something was wrong and it wasn’t unemployment because he had nothing to worry about from that side.

One afternoon, when he had gone out to “clear his head,” with his phone on charge, I picked up his phone. What I saw nearly stopped my own heart. Chats. Long, detailed conversations with a man about travel arrangement fees. Amounts he had paid. Amounts he still owed. Excuses the man kept giving. “I will send the passport soon.” “Don’t worry, boss, trust me.” “The embassy will respond next week.”

Then another chat. This time with a woman. Her name saved as “Erica-HR.” A name I didn’t recognize. When I opened the chat, I nearly fainted. It wasn’t HR anything. It was phoebe, his Ex. The ex he once dated more than ten years ago. The ex he told me had moved abroad and gotten married. He swore he had no contact with Phoebe.

There were voice notes. Long ones. Sad ones. Loving ones. Planning ones. Ansah had told her everything about his struggles with me since losing his job. He had talked about his dreams to travel abroad and Phoebe was helping him do it. Looking at the series of payment he had done, I knew our joint account was in trouble. I checked the joint account and it was empty.

Not low. Empty. I stood there staring at the balance as if my eyes were malfunctioning. That account was our safety net. Our emergency fund. Our plan for the children’s future. every pesewa was gone. I whispered to myself, “But how? How didn’t I see alerts? How didn’t I see withdrawals?”

Ansah always had access to my phone so he did those withdrawals at night when I was asleep or when I was bathing or busy cooking. He would withdraw online and delete every alert. My husband didn’t just spend the money. He stole it from behind my back and erased the evidence.

He said the first man was a “connection man” but the deal fell through. The connection man scammed him. He said he didn’t tell me because I would “panic.” He said he took the money because he wanted a better life for all of us. It was the involvement of Erica that shattered the last part of me holding on to hope. He was planning a whole life behind my back. With someone else using my sweat and sacrifices.

He said, “I didn’t cheat on you. I was just talking to her because she was ready to help me travel abroad.” I laughed. A painful, broken, hysterical laugh. Then he said the stupidest thing a man has ever said to me: “I will pay back the money when I travel.”

Travel to where? That night, something inside me died. Something deeper. A few days later, I walked out of the marriage with my children. No shouting. No fighting. No explanations. When family asked why, I simply said: “I will not stay with a man who used my love as fuel for his foolishness.”

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Ansah begged. He blamed the devil. He swore not to repeat it again. His family pleaded. My family interfered but you no longer feel nauseated after you vomit so nothing in this world could take me back to the home I left behind. I gave that man everything when he was down and had nothing to give but he gave me betrayal in return.

I left and never looked back and this taught me one thing: Sometimes the person you are protecting is the one destroying you slowly.

—Kisiwa

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