We married young and poor. He was twenty-seven, and I was twenty-five years old. I remember days before our marriage, we sat on the corridor of his father’s house and asked ourselves if we were doing the right thing. I was convinced he was the one for me, so I told him if it wasn’t him, I would marry no other man. He had something beautiful to say to me too. After, he said, “Let’s do it.”

FOLLOW US ON WHATSAPP CHANNEL TO RECEIVE ALL STORIES IN YOUR INBOX

A week later, we were married. I didn’t move in with him immediately. I had to complete school and also find a job where he was to be able to move in with him. That took us two good years to make it happen. Three months after I moved in, I realized I was pregnant. I was scared I was going to lose my job because I had just started the job a month prior and I was already pregnant.

It turned out that I was fine and had nothing to worry about. After our second child, it took us four years before the third, the girl, arrived. If we had a boy and a girl at first, we wouldn’t have gone for the third. I wanted a girl, and he wanted to see how a girl child from us would look, so we strived for it, and luckily for us, we had one.

Through all the phases of parenthood, my husband didn’t lend a hand anywhere. Everything, according to him, was a woman’s job. All he did was eat, watch movies or TV, and later retire to bed like a king. I was tired from morning to morning. I had so little sleep sometimes that I could be in the kitchen cooking and dozing off.

I told him, “I need your help around this place. There’s so much to do, but only one person here does everything. Kids, chores, parenting, being a wife—I’m the only one doing everything. Can you help, at least with the kids?”

He would do it for two or three days and then slowly fade from action. I was angry over little things. He wondered where I got the desire to be quick-tempered from. If we had the money or even had a place for an extra person to live, I would have brought someone in to help us.

I took my leave from work when the kids were on vacation and traveled home with the three of them. We were gone for only three weeks, and for three weeks, I never missed my husband. When he called and we talked, all he asked was when we were coming back home. He missed me working around the house while he sat and watched TV.

When we came back home, I remember telling him how rested I was, and his welcome address was, “Welcome back home!” I don’t know why, but it sounded more threatening than it should have. I told him once again that he should help me get through the day. Again, he did it for days and stopped.

A week before my kids went on vacation, I told him, “When I go with them, we are not coming back to this house again. I’ve sought a transfer from work to my parents’ place. You know where to find us when you miss us.”

He laughed, thinking I was joking. I didn’t say much. When he later saw the things I was packing, he realized I was serious. Instead of staying calm, he got angry. Instead of talking to me, he talked over me. Instead of asking questions, he jumped to conclusions. He called me lazy because I complained about minor things all women did in their houses.

I didn’t mind him. I still went with the kids.

We were gone for only one week when he started coming around to see us. Unfortunately for me, my transfer didn’t go as planned. But I was ready to sacrifice my job and find a new one where my parents were. One night, my husband called and asked, “Are your parents aware of your decision not to come back?” I answered, “They support me, so I don’t have a problem.”

All along, he thought I was joking until school reopened and I hadn’t returned. I sent him the fees for the children’s new school, and he came the very next day.

He spoke with my dad, and my dad called me in. The next day, I packed and left with him. After all, my transfer didn’t work out. I entered a house that looked nothing like what I left behind. Everything was in place, and nothing was out of order. He told me he put the place in shape for our coming.

Two years later, and I haven’t regretted my decision to give our marriage another chance. He’s so involved with everything we do around here and even reserves time to play with the kids. Today, we both sit and watch movies together because we can afford to. And we can afford to use the lessons in the movie to improve our marriage.

I asked him, “Was I asking for too much when I complained about the lack of your presence?” He answered, “It sounded too much when you talked about them, but I guess it’s not that much, especially looking at where we are now.”

I write about my husband today as the best husband in the world. I knew he had it in him, but he was being lazy with his calling as a husband. These days, the kids don’t even know me. Even when they are hungry, they go to their father. After we are done cooking, they expect their dad to serve them and not me.

How The Death Of Our Son Nearly Brought Our Marriage To An End

We are still young at this thing called marriage. We almost lost it yet got it back. I count it as all joy, and one thing I tell my male colleagues at work: “Marriage is like two people carrying a log. When it gets heavier at your end, it means the other person is letting go. When we hold tight with equal energy, there’s no place we can’t go.”

I sleep soundly knowing I have a partner—I mean a partner in uppercase. He sleeps soundly too because he knows I have nowhere to go but with him until our time is done.

—Cynthia

This story you just read was sent to us by someone just like you. We know you have a story too. Email it to us at [email protected]. You can also drop your number and we will call you so you tell us your story.

******