It was a fateful evening. After we finished dinner, still seated at the dining table, my husband looked up at me with a sorrowful gaze. His words pierced through the quiet room. “My love, I am now officially an orphan. When you pray for me, pray not only as my wife but also as my mother.”
I stared at him, perplexed. “But your mother is still alive. And my own mother has always stood by you as well.”
He sighed, his eyes dark with weariness. “What I’ve come to know now makes me an orphan. I’m in this wretched situation because of her. Our childlessness, the endless struggles—it all stems from a loving embrace that has become captivity.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with a truth I wasn’t prepared to confront. We had been married for four years without a child. Four years of yearning, doctor visits, and fervent prayers. At times, our desperation even pushed us to consider unthinkable solutions, but our faith always pulled us back from the edge. It had been a life of hope tangled with disappointment.
His confession felt like a mother hen sitting on her chicks, only to smother them in her protective grasp, never letting them hatch into their own lives. I saw the sorrow etched on his face as he quietly left the room to sleep, leaving me with a heart that felt as heavy as the silence around me.
Alone in the dimly lit living room, I tried to process what he had revealed. His mother—loving, doting, always there to help. How many times had she gone out of her way to support us? The frozen soups she brought over, the small errands she ran, the care she showered on us. It had all seemed so genuine. But now, I wondered if it had all been a facade, an illusion carefully constructed to hide something darker.
I had unknowingly become a victim too. Trapped in the same captivity he spoke of. Can a mother forget her nursing child? The Bible's words echoed in my mind, and I finally understood the answer. Not all love is pure; some love binds, controls, and cripples.
I walked to our bedroom door, watching him from the threshold. Memories of our past argument flooded my mind. I had involved my own mother, hoping she could speak to his mother, to find peace or perhaps a solution. But instead, it had caused discord, a silent war between the two women. My mother—a prayer warrior—had boldly told his mother to release her son-in-law from whatever spiritual bondage held him. My husband hadn’t believed a word of it then.
But I did. And I knew that battle for his freedom began that very day. My mother, determined to see her daughter thrive, had started fighting for us spiritually. I realized that my late father would never rest knowing I suffered in my marriage. I had to fight, too.
For two weeks now, I had woken up in the dead of night to pray. My husband didn’t know the extent of my spiritual warfare, but I involved him indirectly. Each day, I asked him for a token, a small item connected to his finances. I needed access to more than just his heart; I needed to break the hold over his life, over us.
Then, the prophecy came. Delivered at church, it left my husband stunned. The words spoken to him confirmed everything I feared—and everything I knew I had to fight for.
Can this battle be won?
Desperation settled over me like a storm cloud as I sat, staring at my phone. I had just confided in my mother, pouring out my fears and frustrations. Her response came like a soothing balm—she reassured me that she was backing me in prayers, that I was not alone in this fight. But even with her support, the burden felt so heavy.
I needed my husband to join me in this battle. It wasn’t just mine to fight—it was ours. But he seemed exhausted, drained from years of unfulfilled hope and endless struggles. Every time I brought up prayer or sought his involvement, he looked at me with a weariness that broke my heart. It was like trying to force a horse to drink water. He was standing right at the well, but no amount of coaxing could make him take the first sip.
Right now, I needed voices—many voices—to speak into the heavens on my behalf. My faith was strong, strong enough to carry both of us, but there were moments when doubt whispered in my ear. At one point, I even questioned God’s purpose for bringing me into this marriage. His promise was that my husband would be my joy, but joy had felt like a distant memory for so long. Instead, I found myself trapped in a marriage where we lived more like roommates—two people sharing space but no longer sharing a life. We went about our own business, rarely interfering with each other’s world. The intimacy, the closeness we once had, was buried beneath layers of unspoken tension.
And when we did speak, it often ended in his nagging or frustration, leaving me bewildered, wondering what I had done to prompt his reaction. The distance between us had grown so wide that I feared we wouldn’t find our way back to each other.
But I refused to give up. If joy wasn’t something he could give me right now, then I would fight for my own joy. I would fight for our marriage, even if I had to do it alone. I couldn’t explain it fully, but deep down I knew this wasn’t just about us. This was about breaking a spiritual yoke that had been holding us captive for far too long.
As things keep unfolding, I will keep praying. Day by day, night by night, until I can feel the weight lift, until I know the chains are broken and the yoke shattered. I will keep pressing forward in faith, trusting that God sees, hears, and will answer in His time.
The battle is far from over, but I am prepared to fight until the very end.
