It started subtly. Every day when he returned from work, he smelled of alcohol. He would say his friends offered it to him and he couldn’t refuse. But is it every day you go to the bar after work?

On Sundays, just before we set the table to eat our usual fufu, he would step out for something he called “for the road.” It didn’t stop there. Gradually, he moved from taking shots at the bar to buying alcohol and bringing it home, drinking in front of us, in front of the children.

I couldn’t have a proper conversation with my husband for more than ten minutes because I couldn’t hold my breath that long. Sleeping in the same bed became unbearable. I created distance, turned my back to him, leaving a wide space between us.

I complained. He said, “This is what men do. We drink our problems away. You can’t tell me what to do.” I cried. I begged. Still, he came home drunk. When I pushed further, he said all men were doing it, so what was the big fuss?

His drinking destroyed our finances. Anytime he had money, it went into feeding his addiction. Bills didn’t matter. School fees didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, only that he had alcohol by his side. What made it worse was that he didn’t even want me to work. The responsibility fell heavily on me, and I couldn’t carry it all.

If I tried to run small businesses behind his back to survive, it turned into a fight. He beat me blue and black. He beat me until I begged for my life. Some days, I tried to convince myself he beat me for comfort, like it made him feel like a man.

One day, before he returned from work, I left.

I came into the marriage with one child and had three more for him. I took all of them with me. I went back home, gathered money, and started a nursery. I went from house to house, encouraging parents to bring their children. I went to offices. Slowly, things began to work in my favor.

For five years after I left, he never reached out, not to me, not to the children. His family didn’t even call to check on them. I carried everything with grace. If you didn’t know my story, you would think I was born into comfort. I was the one who left, so I told myself this was the price to pay, and I accepted it.

Two months ago, I received a call from his sister.

“He is very sick. The doctors don’t think he will make it. Please bring the children to see him before he dies.”

I took the children, 19, 16, and 13. When we arrived, he couldn’t speak to them. It was as if it were a staring competition. I had seen him recover from alcohol-related illness before, but this time was different. Bad different. He died a week later. A failed kidney. Pancreatitis. A damaged liver. So many things in one body.

I later learned he used to come and park near my school just to watch us, then drive away. I don’t know why he never reached out. Maybe he knew how much he had hurt me, his infidelity, his drinking, even after doctors warned him he wouldn’t live long if he didn’t stop.

I mourned him, not as a husband, but as the father of my children, and once, my best friend. His family, especially his father, made sure the children received their inheritance.

But in those five years, I met someone. A gentleman. A friend. A good man. He set boundaries without even speaking, just through respect and understanding. We don’t live together yet. My children are grown, but I don’t think they are ready.

What Nobody Tells You About Divorce

When my ex died, I was asked to speak as his wife. I did it for old times’ sake and for the children. When I told the man I am with, he encouraged me. “Speak positively. Leave the past where it belongs.” And I did.

What shocked me more was that he told me he was coming to the burial to stand with me. And he was there.

So to the girl who shared about her ex being dead and not knowing whether to go to the funeral, let your partner know. His reaction may shock you. That is your daughter’s father and I know he knows she is important to you. That will be the reason he will respect how you feel.

—Bissiwah

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