When Fiifi and I started dating, it felt like our kind of love was forged in heaven. It doesn’t mean everything was rosy—no. We fought often, but for two years, we always found our way back, convincing ourselves that our differences were just the fire that forged a stronger love. Our friends said, “As for you two, no one can handle your issues. If we try, we will become a third person.” We believed we were meant for each other, but for some reason, we couldn’t stop fighting over little things. He used to say we loved each other more than our differences showed, and I believed him with my whole heart. So after two years, when we agreed to get married, I thought the worst was behind us.

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The wedding preparations brought out a side of us I didn’t even know existed. Every little thing became a battlefield—vendors, colors, venue, outfits. I’m naturally the type who speaks her mind, and Fiifi also doesn’t joke with his mother. I knew he loved his mother, but I didn’t know it was only his mother’s opinion that mattered to him. Every single decision had to pass his mother’s inspection first. Because of that, his mother wanted to control everything—what food we should serve, which decorator we should use, even the design of my own dress.

I didn’t understand why she should dictate our wedding. Meanwhile, when my mother suggested something small, Fiifi immediately rejected it. It felt unfair. It felt disrespectful. So of course, I talked. I talked plenty. Maybe too much. But I didn’t know how to swallow things quietly. Even during counseling, we fought. The pastor asked if we had unresolved issues, and before I knew it, we were arguing right there in front of him. Looking back, I see the red flags clearly, but at that time, I kept telling myself love would fix everything.

Then came the day before the wedding. The day everything exploded. Fiifi’s mother accused me of being overbearing, all because I wanted to make my case. And I won’t lie, the way she said it pained me. I responded immediately. I told her flat out, “Mom, with all due respect, this is our wedding. I should have a say, and you won’t deny me that.” Fiifi jumped in, shouting at me to shut up. While I kept my cool, his mother didn’t stop hurling words at me. I responded, “You can wait for your daughter’s wedding to do that.”

I was angry. I had had to accept everything she said about my wedding until that moment. It was an explosion from a place of deep-seated frustration. Fiifi and his mom didn’t hold back. While his mom called me the most disrespectful person she’d met, Fiifi added, “You can get away with everything but not this. I can’t marry a woman who has zero respect for my mother.”

He stormed off, and I also left, shaking with anger and confusion. We didn’t talk again after that. Not that night. Not even at dawn. I wanted to call and ask if the wedding was still on, but I felt it was a silly question to ask. We had been through many problems and had gotten back together, so I thought we were going to be just fine.

I woke up in the morning and started dressing up. My makeup artist kept asking if I was okay. My mom called and asked if everything was alright because she had called Fiifi’s mom and she had refused to pick up her calls. I lied. I told her all was well so she shouldn’t bother. I wore my gown with tears threatening behind my lashes. I checked my phone every second to see if he had said something, but there was nothing. I got to the church premises before him. I had to wait in my car to see if he would turn up. The pastor came to ask, “Is everything alright? Where is your husband?”

While the pastor was talking to me, we saw his car coming. He got out and didn’t even look my way. He hurriedly went inside the church, and I later followed. We both went through the process without saying a word to each other. We forced the pictures, the vows, the rings. Everything felt like acting. At the reception, he left early. No explanation. No goodbye. And he never came back. We didn’t even get the chance to do the couple dance. It didn’t take a clever person to know all was not well.

Three months later, nothing has changed. He’s still living with his mother, and I’m in my house alone. The house we both rented to turn into our home is empty and abandoned. We’ve never lived together as husband and wife. Fiifi insists he’s not going to move in. Our families keep trying to fix things, but if I’m being honest, I feel my heart is letting go. Yes, I’m confrontational. Yes, I should have kept quiet sometimes. I know I pushed too hard, and maybe I didn’t show enough respect to the woman he loves the most. But Fiifi also chose his mother’s voice over mine every single time. He never defended me. He never balanced the scales. And his temper, my God! The smallest thing could set him off.

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He wants a wife who is quiet. I want a husband who is a man, not an extension of his mother. My regret is not that I spoke my mind; it’s the fact that I still went through with the wedding thinking we could put this one too behind us. I’m tired of fighting. Maybe, just maybe, I’m finally done. Well, not that I believe he would change his mind and come back for us to *be* married, but even if he should, he would meet a woman who has nothing left in her heart for him. Maybe we’ll use that period when we are both calm to tell each other that it’s over, so we can find our way out of this thing we call marriage.

—Sister

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