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It started as a simple conversation with my fiancé, an attempt, on my part, to reach a compromise. We were discussing a topic I thought required mutual understanding. I believed couples should meet halfway, hear each other out, and agree on what works best for both. But to my surprise, he wasn’t on that page. Instead of listening, he insisted on his way, grounding his stance in the belief that as the man—the "head"—his word should be final. Then came the part that shook me: he shut me down, mid-sentence, and refused to hear anything more I had to say.
I wasn’t just disappointed. I felt dismissed. Disrespected. It’s one thing I don’t tolerate or pardon easily. Still, I chose to handle it with maturity. I called him and calmly expressed how hurt I felt about the way he shut me down. I reminded him that we were soon to be married, and pride should have no place between us, that we should always strive for understanding, not dominance. I asked him to “do the needful,” hoping he'd see where he went wrong.
But instead of reflection or remorse, he said, “What exactly is the needful?” I said, “Don’t tell me you don’t know.” He gave me an unfriendly smile, almost mocking. Then he said the words I’ll never forget: “What you’re demanding, you won’t have it.” And as if that wasn’t enough, he picked up his phone and called my sister, saying I didn’t know how to speak to elders and that he’d send me back to her to be taught manners.
I thought he was joking at first. I waited, expecting him to come around and apologize. But he didn’t. Days passed. A whole week. No message. No call. Nothing. I was determined not to reach out either. I wanted him to feel the sting of that silence to know how deeply his words had cut. But the truth is, I was hurting too. My thoughts were everywhere. I started to wonder: What if he’s done with me? What if silence becomes our final goodbye? The love I had for him was still very much alive, but so was the pain.
Eventually, I gave in. Not out of weakness, but out of love. I called him and asked that we meet and talk. I wanted peace. I was ready to set pride aside, even if he wasn’t. But instead of reconciliation, I was met with a condition: “You must apologize for everything. If not, you’re not ready for peace.” His words struck me like a final blow. I couldn’t hold back the tears. This was the same man who once spoke sweetly about love and forever and now he was reducing our relationship to a power play.
Still, I apologized. Not because I believed I was entirely wrong, but because peace mattered more to me than being right. Everything in me was against it, but I chose to silence it—for us.
That moment changed something in me. Even though we reunited, a part of me felt betrayed by him, and by the part of myself that had to surrender just to keep the peace, I question the kind of love I was holding on to, and whether it truly honored the woman I was becoming.
Looking back, I realize emotional threats don’t always come from strangers or enemies. Sometimes, they come from the ones who claim to love us the most. I learned that love should never demand silence or submission as proof of loyalty. It should listen, compromise, and lift both voices equally. That moment opened my eyes not just to him, but to the kind of love I truly deserve.
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