I buried my husband late last year. He was a good husband and a wonderful father to our child. He passed away a week after our fourth wedding anniversary. At the time, I was carrying our second child, a girl.

We didn’t see it coming. No one did. Albert was happy. I remember the night after our anniversary. He was lying peacefully in bed, snoring gently like a baby with a stuffy nose. I watched him closely, filled with gratitude, knowing how far he had traveled just to be home in time for our special day.

It wasn’t a grand celebration. We went to the hotel where we had our honeymoon to relive some of those cherished moments. We ate cake, had drinks, and went to bed. The next morning, we had breakfast together at the hotel, packed our things, and returned home.

He was full of life and joy. If anyone had asked me, I would have proudly said, “I am the reason for his smiles because I’ve been a good wife to him.” I didn’t need anyone to tell me I was a good wife. I only had to look at my husband’s face and see the contentment in his life to know I had played my part as his helper, easing his burdens.

They say every marriage has its troubles, but we didn’t have any. Sure, there were moments of misunderstanding and words we later regretted, but that was it. We didn’t have much money, but we were content with what we had and always planned for our children’s future. We never had major troubles—certainly nothing big enough to take the life of a husband.

The morning the pregnancy test confirmed I was expecting, I didn’t want to tell him right away. I wanted to play a little game of hide-and-seek before sharing the news, but I was too excited to keep it to myself. I told him, “You know that thing we did? Yeah, it’s bringing another baby into our home.” He gleefully asked, “The thing that made you moan and whine?” I replied, “Go away! Who moaned and whined?”

We laughed. He congratulated me and called me “Born Two.” It was the only time that ‘born two’ has sounded right in my ears. He said, “If this one is a boy, we’re done.” I secretly hoped it wasn’t a boy so we could try again for a third.

When he came home from work that day, he didn’t even eat. He said he was too tired and wanted to sleep early. He bathed, helped our daughter with her homework, and went to bed around 8 p.m. I stayed up a bit later and joined him around 11 p.m. By then, our little girl was already asleep.

I remember waking up at dawn and realizing he wasn’t in bed with me. I didn’t think much of it because he could have been anywhere. I turned over and went back to sleep. I didn’t open my eyes again until I heard a loud knock on the door. I lifted my head, looked around, and noticed my husband wasn’t there. The knocking grew louder and more aggressive. The person kept shouting my name, “Sister Nneka, come out and see something! Your husband—come and see what your husband has done!”

I rushed out of bed, threw on some clothes, and opened the door. I screamed, “What has he done?” The person grabbed my hand and pulled me along. On the way, I saw many people rushing to the same spot where we were going. I kept asking, “What happened to my husband?” She kept pulling me until we reached the scene where my husband had hung himself. If she had told me what had happened, I wouldn’t have gone to see it.

I knew my husband. I knew the kind of man he was and how he became my pride. It’s very sad that the last image I have of him is him dangling on a ceiling joist of an uncompleted building. I couldn’t bear to look at him. As soon as I saw him foaming at the mouth and hanging there, I collapsed to the ground. I couldn’t look at him again. I wailed and wailed until I had no tears left.

How could he do this? What could drive a happy man to end his life? Why didn’t he talk to me about what he was going through? Did he think about me and the baby I was carrying in his final moments? Was he scared? What was his last wish for us?

I have no answers to these questions. People usually leave a note when they do something like this, but my husband didn’t. He left us guessing, trying to piece together what could have caused him to take his own life. To this day, all we have are speculations. “Maybe he owed someone money.” “Maybe it was work-related—he might have mishandled funds, and they were after him.” “Maybe it was depression.” “Maybe it was his demons.” “Maybe…”

The man of my life died and left a “maybe” in his place. The saddest part is that when he was alive, he showed no signs of any of those “maybes.” So I concluded, “Maybe he was tired of something, but the man in him had too much pride to break down and cry in my arms.” I would have told him, “Dear, everything will be alright. Let’s start again tomorrow. Let’s rebuild whatever is broken.”

But he didn’t say a word.

READ ALSO: How Do You Marry a Man You Don’t Love?

Sometimes, I try to forget about him and move on, but my three-year-old daughter hears the sound of a car engine and rushes outside, screaming, “My daddy is coming! My daddy is coming!” When she realizes it’s not him, she runs back to me and asks, “When is Daddy coming back?”

Tell me, how do I move on? And how do I make her understand that Daddy is never coming back? If I can move past the hurt, my daughter must also move past “Daddy is coming” and accept the reality.

I’ve always been grateful to my parents and my husband’s family. They’ve been my strength when I had none left, and they keep assuring me that time will bring ultimate healing.

So I will wait and pray.

—Nneka, Nigeria

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