“For Better For Worse” Simply Means For Better For Worse

The TV was playing my favorite show, so I settled in the hall and watched until it got late. When I entered the bedroom, he was already asleep. The fan was off, and the radio was silent. I wondered, “What’s wrong with him? It’s not like him to sleep with both of these off.” I walked over to the switch and turned the fan on, then switched on the radio. Unfortunately, the volume was already cranked up. I didn’t check first, and when I turned it on, the loud sound jolted him awake. He shouted, “What was that for?” I found it amusing and laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I started to explain, but before I could finish, a slap hit me from behind.

I didn’t see it coming. If I had, I would have raised my hands to shield my face. I buried my face in my palms and said, “Joo, why would you do that? It was a mistake, but why slap me?” He was so furious that he began to stutter, “You stupidly turned the volume up to wake me from my sleep, and you think laughing is the best response? That slap was for your stupidity. The one for the volume is still coming. Keep talking, and it will land soon.”

Our marriage was only two months old at that point. A two-month marriage is like a budding flower, fresh and swaying in the wind, getting its petals wet in the rain, waiting for the dry season to come before they fall and wither. But not all flowers wilt in bad weather. I envisioned my marriage as a flower planted by the rivers, hoping to remain evergreen regardless of the storms. That was my prayer, but it didn’t take long for the cracks to appear. When they did, they manifested in a slap. From behind.

We argued fiercely. He threatened to throw me out of the room if I said another word. I kept talking. He buried his head under the pillows to block out my noise. I sobbed myself to sleep. In the morning, he was the first to wake up. He tapped my hand and said, “I’m sorry for last night. I overreacted. I acted like a monster. I’ve thought about it and regretted everything. Please don’t hold it against me. It won’t happen again.” I started crying again, desperately needing a hug, and he noticed. He pulled me into his embrace and said, “Don’t cry. You’re making me sad. I wasn’t myself last night. You know me, and you know that wasn’t me. Please forgive me.”

I wiped my tears and opened the curtains to let in some light. When the sun rose, I looked at it and smiled, burying the events of the night. His apology felt sincere, evident in the wrinkles on his brow. We had dated for three years before marrying, and he had never laid a hand on me. Sure, he got angry sometimes, but it never seemed like he could lash out in anger. So when he said, “You know me…” I understood. I knew him so well that even in a dark room, I could recognize him under a blanket.

His name was Jonathan, but out of love, I called him Joo. When we played and teased each other, I called him O’Joo. He loved it so much that he added an O to my name too, calling me O’dee. My name is Dede, so O’dee made perfect sense. In those playful moments, it felt like nothing could stop us. The world could come to a halt, but we would keep going.

He had a job that made him very responsible. His mother once told me, “He wasn’t always like this, but ever since he entered this profession, he calmed down.” I don’t want to delve too deeply into what he did for a living; I don’t know who might be reading.

I was three months pregnant when he pushed me to the floor and began kicking me. I knew the life I carried was fragile, so I curled into a fetal position to protect my belly from his kicks. He continued until his foot hit a chair, causing him pain and making him stop. The next morning, he apologized again, bringing up the devil. “I think my demons are getting wild. The devil wants to destroy us, but we shouldn’t let him.” That day, he took me to the hospital for a check-up. The doctor assured us, “The baby is fine. Just eat well and rest. Everything will be okay.”

I gave birth, and his mother came to stay with us. He couldn’t mistreat me in front of her, so he did it at night while we were alone. It could be over something trivial—like, “Why did you take the money from the drawer when I already gave you money for the week?” I had answers, but when he was angry, he didn’t care about them. All he wanted was to kick me to release his frustration. I confided in my mom about it. She didn’t realize how severe it was and told me, “As long as he apologizes, he knows he was wrong. He’ll stop. Don’t worry.” When I told my dad I wanted to leave the marriage, he said, “How would you survive if you leave? You don’t work. You don’t have money. How would you manage?”

I lost my job a few months after we married. I was searching for work when he told me, “You don’t have to worry. I’ll take care of us.” I wasn’t convinced. I wanted to start a small business, but he objected. “My wife doing petty trading? How would my friends view me if they knew what my wife does? Absolutely not.” I suggested various options, but he simply didn’t want me to work. He had a good job, and his friends and family held him in high regard, so he didn’t want me to do anything menial.

When my dad asked me that question, I felt it. I began saving money to start something on my own, regardless of whether he accepted it. I started selling women’s items—bras, panties, and other small things I could keep and pretend were for me. I sold to friends, who then recommended me to others. It grew a bit larger, and I began selling on credit to teachers and nurses, especially those in government jobs. They loved buying on credit and paying on payday.

I was good at hiding it, but somehow he found out. One morning, he angrily asked, “What’s this I’m hearing? You’re selling women’s panties on credit? Since when? Why didn’t I know?” I replied, “I started not long ago. I was…” Before I could finish, my cheek met his palm, dazed by the slap. He lunged at me, removed his belt, and beat me like a father would discipline his daughter. I was on the floor crying when he walked by with his bag in hand. As he reached the door, he said, “If you have any strength left, go out there and sell again. I’ll come find you.”

Once he left, I began packing my things. I told my mother, “He beat me again.” I told my father, “I want to come home.” I packed a few belongings and sent them to my parents’ house. When school closed, I went for my child, and we both went to my parents’ home. I knew he would call when he got home and I wasn’t there. At 6 PM, no call. At 7 PM, still no call. At 8 PM, I saw his phone ringing. When I answered, I didn’t speak. I heard, “Hello.” The voice wasn’t his. It said again, “Hello.” I responded, “The voice said, “There’s an accident patient here. We haven’t gotten his name because he can’t talk. You’re saved as ‘Wifee’ in his phone, so we decided to call you.” I asked, “Accident patient? You mean my husband?”

Hours later, I was by his bedside. He had something covering his mouth, a needle in his vein, and band-aids on various parts of his body. He looked nothing like the man who had beaten me that morning. He lay on his back, soft and helpless like a vegetable. I called his name, and his eyes opened, but he couldn’t speak. The pain was too much, and he began to cry. I said, “Don’t worry. I’m here. Everything will be fine, and we’ll walk home together.”

When I got home that day, my mom asked, “Now what?” I replied, “I will go back home. I can’t leave him like this. He’s in a bad state. People will judge me. They’ll say I’m abandoning him when he’s at his lowest. They’ll curse me and call me names. I don’t care much about that, but my spirit won’t be at ease if I leave him like this. He’ll get better, and when he’s back on his feet, I will walk away.”

He never regained his strength. We spent over three months in the hospital. His left side was completely paralyzed. You could set his left side on fire, and he wouldn’t feel a thing. Numb. His right side was fine, but unfortunately, he had also broken his right leg. The doctor used too much technical jargon to describe his condition. The bottom line was that he wouldn’t walk again or be normal. I brought him home to care for him. We sought help from herbal doctors who promised to restore his health. We spent a fortune, but nothing worked.

We had nothing left. Our bank account was empty. We moved from our house because we could no longer afford the rent. We relocated to a single-room self-contained unit. The people there didn’t know our story. They cursed my husband. When they saw me talking to a man, they jumped to conclusions, assuming I was cheating because my husband was incapacitated. I didn’t speak much. Each morning, I woke up, cleaned his mess, and took care of him. I bathed him, changed the bed, and put him to sleep. I sold off some of our remaining possessions just to take care of him. I did this for three years until one day, I received a call from his father. He asked, “How’s our son?” I replied, “Nothing new. Same old.” He said, “We’ll come for him. You married him, but we gave birth to him. He belongs to us more than he belongs to you. You’ve suffered long enough. Rest.”

The day they came for him, I sat on the floor and cried my heart out. I didn’t know why I was crying, but I cried anyway. My child was already living with my parents, so I gathered what was left of me and went to live with them. I was thirty-nine and broke, with nothing to my name. I counted my underwear, and there were only three pairs left, one of which was torn at the bottom. I remember crying in my mother’s arms. She said, “It’s not too late. You’ll be fine.”

I started selling again. Business was slow. I didn’t have enough to even pay for my child’s school fees. One day, I ran into a friend from school who had succeeded in life. I shared my story with him. He shook his head and asked, “Are you telling me the plot of a movie you watched recently?” I replied, “Yes, it’s a movie. The only difference is that I’m the main character. I’m the girl who suffered.” He connected me with a friend who then linked me to another friend who offered me a job. I felt too old and didn’t even know how to type on a computer. They were kind to me, teaching and encouraging me. They pushed me to improve. They became like family. One day, I laughed, and it felt strange; my lips had forgotten how to smile.

Occasionally, I would check on him. He would look at my face and remain silent, tears streaming down his cheeks. His mother advised me not to visit often because whenever I did, his condition seemed to worsen.

My life is improving. My child is in school and doing well, but her father continues to decline. One day, I shared my story with a friend, and she asked, “Why didn’t you leave him at the hospital? If I were you, I would have handed him divorce papers on his hospital bed so he knows how much it hurt.” I told her, “I thought about that too. It crossed my mind often, but do you remember that call announcing his accident? The voice said, ‘You’re saved as wifee on his phone.’ I was still his wife. I remembered the vow I made during our wedding: ‘In sickness and in health.’ I wouldn’t call myself a devoted Christian, but I felt I needed to honor that vow. It was the only thing that kept us going.” 

-Lilian