Episode 7: The Last Straw or the First Step?
I stared at that message on Ifeoma’s phone for several minutes.
It didn’t feel like snooping—it felt like survival. The same way she once listened to a voice note on my phone and made her own conclusions.
> “Are you still planning to leave him after Junior’s graduation?”
So it was real.
She was plotting an exit.
I swallowed hard, staring at the woman I’d built a life with, now peacefully asleep beside me. Her face looked calm. Innocent. But her chats told a different story—one of quiet resentment, of bottled-up decisions.
I dropped the phone quietly and sat at the edge of the bed.
My heart was racing.
—
Later that morning, I confronted her.
“Ifeoma, who is Bolaji?”
She froze mid-sip of her tea.
“I saw your message,” I added.
She said nothing for a long time.
Then she placed the cup down and looked me in the eyes.
> “Bolaji is a travel agent. I reached out to him months ago. I wanted options… just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“In case you didn’t stop. In case Amaka became permanent. In case I broke before you did.”
I exhaled deeply.
“So it’s true then? You were planning to leave.”
She nodded slowly, tears brimming in her eyes.
“I didn’t want to. But every time I looked at you, I didn’t see the man who used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered. I saw… a man who felt more like a protector to another woman than a husband to me.”
—
I sat in silence, processing everything.
And in that silence, I realized something:
Yes, I didn’t cheat physically.
But emotionally?
I had stretched my loyalty so far it looked like betrayal.
—
Two days later, I called a trusted pastor for counseling. Not a shouting, judgmental preacher—someone who knew us both. Who had married us seven years ago.
He agreed to meet us in his office.
Ifeoma came reluctantly.
“I just don’t want to be embarrassed,” she whispered before we stepped in.
I nodded. “Neither do I.”
—
The session was tough.
We both spoke our truths.
Ifeoma admitted she had even considered filing for separation.
I confessed that I had built a bond with Amaka that I didn’t know how to sever.
But the pastor said something that stuck with me:
> “The devil doesn’t destroy marriages with bombs. He does it with cracks.”
He turned to me and asked:
> “If you lost Ifeoma today… would Amaka be a consolation or a regret?”
I didn’t even think.
“Regret,” I said. “A deep one.”
Then he turned to her:
> “And if you walk away now, will it be because your husband failed you—or because you stopped fighting for what you promised to protect?”
She broke down.
For the first time since all of this started, she cried openly.
And so did I.
—
That night, we held each other again.
Not perfectly.
But tenderly.
With fresh wounds and tired hearts.
But also with the decision to try again.
—
Weeks later, I got a message from Amaka:
> “Thank you for everything. I’m getting transferred to Abuja. Don’t worry about us anymore.”
I wished her well and meant it.
And I meant it more when I deleted the chat thread for good.
—
Ifeoma saw me delete it.
She didn’t say anything.
She just walked up, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and whispered:
“Thank you for choosing me.”
—
💬 THE END? Or a NEW BEGINNING?
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