He was abusive. He would beat you but not leave bruises so people wouldn’t ask what happened to you. He made life really difficult for me when we started having kids. He wasn’t there, and he didn’t provide. He would scream at me when his food wasn’t ready on time, food he didn’t pay for. Even in the presence of strangers or his family, he made me look so little, like something that had no use.

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But he was my husband, the same man I stood before God and declared for better or for worse. People loved him because he smiled a lot. He was kind to strangers and gave bountifully at funerals. He wouldn’t give me because, “What do you do with your salary?”

And then he fell sick. Something that had to do with his prostate and later his heart. For a whole year, he was in and out of the hospital regularly. I stayed by his side until his dying moment. He was wearing an oxygen mask, so he couldn’t utter his last word. I craved an apology. I wanted to hear him say, “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you.” I wanted to forgive him, but we both missed out on that moment.

At his funeral, I read the tribute from the wife. I told my mom, “I wish I could tell the world the truth. Who he really was.” Mom said, “There’s no need. Use the opportunity to get closure. He was your husband.”

So I stood in front of God and in front of family, friends, and mourners and called him the greatest gift God gave me. I called him kind and said he was there in my darkest moment. I cried while I read. I said he was the reason I could face the world because he made me stronger.

When I was descending the podium, I saw crying faces, even my mom couldn’t hold herself together. My sister came to hug me and led me to my seat. I looked at his glossy casket and said to myself, “You know I lied. I hope this gives you peace wherever you are.”

Many days after his burial, all I could think of was how he left me alone on my sickbed with our two-year-old by my side, all because he had to go to a funeral in his village. How he told me I was lucky he didn’t divorce me and that I should thank God people would see me and give me respect because I had a ring on my finger.

I Was Fine Until I Was Alone In My Room

I don’t hate him, but I can’t forgive myself for standing the abuse and neglect and later painting him the way I never got to experience him. I hate me for that, but then again, he died young. Forty-nine years old. So maybe, I was rather the gift God gave to him. I’m not sad about his passing. He suffered enough and deserved that rest. What I’m sad about is the lack of good memories for the fourteen years that we were married.

—Felicity

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