Behind Their Perfect Marriage Lived My Silent Truth

Two years ago, my parents marked their 35th wedding anniversary with a grand celebration. During the church service, the pastor held them up as a model for all marriages, encouraging the youth to aspire to such success in their own futures. The choir performed in their honor, and several church elders were invited to share positive anecdotes about my parents.

Everyone spoke highly of them, and the congregation applauded. As I watched their faces, I could see the joy and pride radiating from their hearts. Thirty-five years of marriage deserved all the praise they received, and they basked in the moment.

However, there was one thing missing: I wasn’t allowed to speak. Ironically, I was the only one who had lived with my parents throughout those 35 years, so my perspective should have mattered most, yet I was silenced.

The church hailed their marriage as a success, and every speaker echoed that sentiment. But to me, their marriage was far from admirable. It was not something any woman should take pride in. My mother used me as a reason to remain in an abusive relationship, while my father’s only motivation for returning to her was financial; my mother owned the company where he served as managing director.

My father left the marriage three times after abusing my mother, and each time, she sent representatives to apologize for a wrong she hadn’t committed. He even got the housekeeper pregnant, and to avoid scandal, my mother paid her to have an abortion.

She did everything to hold onto a man who didn’t deserve her loyalty, all for the sake of appearances and to ensure people labeled their marriage a success. When things became unbearable and she confided in me, my advice was always the same: leave him. But she would respond, “Who will then be your father?”

When I turned twenty-four, my mother began discussing marriage with me, inquiring about my dating life and intentions. A few weeks later, I introduced her to my boyfriend. I said, “This is Idris. He works at blah blah blah and is blah blah.” After hearing all the good things about him, the only question my mother asked was, “Is he a Muslim?” That was it.

“You can’t marry a Muslim. Our faith doesn’t align,” she told me later. I countered, “You married Dad. You both share the same faith, yet he still abuses you and treats you poorly. What’s the point?” She dismissed my concerns, saying I was too young to understand. Matters worsened when my father bluntly told Idris that he wouldn’t allow him in our home.

Gradually, they pushed Idris away, leaving me single again. They also drove away the next guy I brought home due to tribal issues. I couldn’t help but wonder how two people who struggled to maintain their own relationship could dictate what kind of relationship was best for me.

They attempted to set me up with a church guy, but I refused. They even tried to push me toward the pastor’s son, and I said no.

Eventually, one night, they came to my room, expressing their desire for me to find a good partner and their fear of me falling into the wrong hands. I calmly asked my mother, “Are you in good hands?” She glanced at my father and nodded. Then she said, “We’ve been married for over 30 years; that should tell you something.”

I replied, “You’ve been together for over thirty years, but trust me, I wouldn’t last a year in a marriage like yours. I know you love me, but please let me make my own choices. Don’t force people on me just because you like them. Allow me to choose.”

Love is a losing game. We only learn to become better at losing. They thought I was hard-hearted; I felt they didn’t understand me. Despite all these years together, they still argue frequently yet remain together. Perhaps there’s joy in that for them; I can’t say. All I ask for is a chance—my own chance to choose and be chosen.

Is that too much to ask?

—Lena  
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