The Day My Happy Husband Never Came Home Again

I lost my husband late last year. He was a loving partner and an amazing father to our child. He passed away just a week after we celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. At that time, I was expecting our second child, a girl.

His death was completely unexpected. No one saw it coming. Albert was in good spirits. I remember the night after our anniversary; he lay peacefully in bed, snoring softly like a baby with a stuffy nose. I watched him with gratitude, reflecting on how far he had come just to be home for our special day.

Our celebration wasn’t extravagant. We returned to the hotel where we had our honeymoon to relive some of those treasured moments. We enjoyed cake, had a few drinks, and went to bed. The next morning, we shared breakfast at the hotel, packed our belongings, and headed home.

He was full of life and happiness. If anyone had asked me, I would have confidently said, “I am the reason for his smiles because I’ve been a good wife.” I didn’t need anyone to affirm my role; I could see the contentment on his face, knowing I had supported him and lightened his load.

They say every marriage faces challenges, but we didn’t have any significant ones. Sure, there were misunderstandings and words we later regretted, but that was the extent of it. We didn’t have much money, but we were satisfied with what we had and always planned for our children’s future. We never faced major issues—nothing that could take a husband away from his family.

The morning I found out I was pregnant, I hesitated to tell him right away. I wanted to play a little game of hide-and-seek before sharing the news, but my excitement got the better of me. I told him, “You know that thing we did? It’s bringing another baby into our home.” He joyfully asked, “The thing that made you moan and whine?” I playfully replied, “Go away! Who moaned and whined?”

We laughed together. He congratulated me and affectionately called me “Born Two.” It was the only time that phrase ever sounded right to me. He joked, “If this one is a boy, we’re done.” I secretly hoped it wouldn’t be a boy so we could try 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 took a bath, helped our daughter with her homework, and went to bed around 8 p.m. I stayed up a bit longer and joined him around 11 p.m., by which time our little girl was already asleep.

I remember waking up at dawn and noticing he wasn’t in bed with me. I didn’t think much of it; 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 realized my husband was still missing. The knocking grew louder and more insistent. Someone was 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. As we hurried, I saw many people rushing to the same location. 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 well. I understood the kind of man he was and how he became my pride. It’s heartbreaking that the last image I have of him is him hanging from a ceiling joist of an unfinished 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 again. I wailed until I had no tears left.

How could he do this? What could drive a happy man to take his own life? Why didn’t he talk to me about what he was going through? Did he think of 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 often leave notes in such situations, but my husband didn’t. He left us in the dark, trying to piece together what could have led him to this tragic decision. To this day, all we have are speculations. “Maybe he owed someone money.” “Perhaps 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 love of my life is gone, leaving behind a “maybe.” The saddest part is that when he was alive, he showed no signs of any of those “maybes.” 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 never said a word.

Sometimes, I try to forget him and move on, but my three-year-old daughter hears the sound of a car engine and rushes outside, shouting, “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 help her understand that Daddy is never coming back? If I can overcome the pain, 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, assuring me that time will bring healing.

So I will wait and pray.

—Nneka  
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