I Stayed”
When I first met my husband, he was a calm man.
Soft-spoken. Respectful. The kind of man you would trust without thinking twice. That was the man I married. That was the man I believed I would spend my life with.
I didn’t know everything about him.
I didn’t know he drank.
It wasn’t long after our marriage that I found out.
At first, it was small. He would come home late sometimes, smelling of alcohol. I noticed it, but I didn’t think much of it. I told myself it was just occasional. Something he could control. Something that would stop with time.
But I was wrong.
It didn’t stop.
It became a habit. Then it became part of our life.
He would come home at night, drunk.
Some nights he could barely walk straight. Some nights he would talk too much. Other nights, he would just lie down and sleep without saying anything.
I cried at first.
I asked him to stop. I begged him. I reminded him of the kind of man he used to be. But nothing changed.
And then… I had a choice.
Leave… or stay.
I stayed.
Not because I didn’t see the problem.
Not because I didn’t feel the pain.
But because I loved him.
Years passed.
We had children—four of them.
Life became bigger than just me and him. There were school fees, food, responsibilities. I became stronger, more focused. I stopped waiting for him to change and started focusing on what I could control.
And something surprised me.
Even though he drank…
He respected me.
He never raised his hand on me. Not once.
He never insulted me. Never shouted at me.
Even when he was drunk, he was careful with me. Sometimes, I would even feel like he feared me in a quiet way—not fear from violence, but respect.
He listened when I spoke.
And every month, when his salary came, he would give me almost all of it. About 80%.
“Take it,” he would say.
I handled everything. The house. The children. Their school fees. Food. Daily needs.
I became the one holding everything together.
Some nights, he would come home drunk… but not empty-handed.
He would hold a small nylon bag.
Inside it—meat, or suya.
He would give it to me like a small peace offering. Like a man who knew he wasn’t perfect, but was trying in his own way.
Those small things… they meant something.
There were nights he didn’t even make it home.
I would hear from neighbors, or sometimes I would just know.
I would go out, in the dark, looking for him.
Sometimes I would find him sitting by the roadside.
Sometimes lying down somewhere close to the house.
And I would help him up.
Carry him. Support him. Bring him home.
People used to ask me,
“Why are you still there?”
“Why haven’t you left?”
I never had one simple answer.
Because life is not always simple.
Yes, he drank. Yes, he was an addict.
But he was not a bad man.
He didn’t beat me.
He didn’t insult me.
He didn’t abandon his responsibilities.
In his own way… he tried.
I learned something over the years.
Not every marriage is perfect.
Not every love story is clean.
Some are messy.
Some are difficult.
Some require strength you didn’t know you had.
Did I wish he would stop drinking?
Yes. Every day.
Did he stop?
No.
But I stopped fighting him.
I stopped trying to change him.
Instead, I learned how to live, how to build my home, how to raise my children in peace despite everything.
People see strength in different ways.
Some think strength is leaving.
Sometimes… strength is staying.
I stayed.
Not because I was weak.
But because I chose my path, and I carried it with my full heart.
And till today…
He still comes home with that small nylon sometimes.
And I still collect it.
Quietly.