When my husband’s elder brothers looked at him with that hard glint in their eyes, the question lingered in the air like smoke. “And what does your wife think about all this?”
They were furious, seeing the prophecy as nothing less than an attack on their mother’s character. How could his church dare call her a “witch informant”? The very idea shook them to the core. She was the matriarch of their family—the one who had loved and worked for them, a mother whose devotion was undeniable.
But my husband sat there, choosing his words carefully, treading a path so narrow that it seemed impossible not to misstep. I could see he was trying to keep the peace—trying to appease both his family and the church, all without siding with anyone explicitly. He didn’t condemn his younger brother, who had shut his mother out of his home, nor did he defend him. He didn’t accuse his mother of anything, but he didn’t entirely dismiss the church’s claims either.
And me? I was simply watching from the sidelines, appearing as if I was in the dark about all of it.
Truth be told, I wasn’t much of a warrior in spiritual battles. I’d always had my own mother for that, and she prayed for me with a fierce protection that I took comfort in. But there was something inside me now, stirring, like a flame that had been dormant but was suddenly alive. If I needed to step into this battle, all forces would know it. I would cry out to my Father in Heaven, the loving Defender who rarely heard my pleas for help—I was usually busy thanking Him for the blessings He’d already given me.
Can you imagine trying to harm a man’s favorite daughter? They’d awaken something in me they weren’t prepared for.
Yet, anger was simmering within me. A quiet, bitter anger. I’d loved my mother-in-law like my own mother. What I did for my own mother, I did for her too. I had even confided in her about my deepest pain, my childlessness, and she’d embraced me, prayed with me, and sought God’s guidance for me.
But when the rumors began to swirl—whispers and pointed fingers—she had withdrawn, shutting me out, cutting ties with my own mother, too. My mother was the first who knew about this and she had kept the truth from me then, not wanting me to feel the sting of betrayal.
Now, though, the truth had clawed its way to the surface. Her children had seen the prophecy, heard what was kept hidden. And if it weren’t for the warnings I’d been given, I would have confronted her myself, done something I might regret.
Even now, I prayed for God’s intervention. Yet, forgiveness eluded me, especially when it came to my husband. He had brought me into a marriage that now felt like a battleground, with old wounds and new mistrust bubbling beneath the surface. If this were a simple ancestral curse, I could separate myself, pull free. If it were an outsider, I could pray for protection. But this was a “loving enemy”—a woman who had held me close, who now seemed to have shadows in her embrace.
And through it all, one thing became clear: I would never again ignore my own discernment. The spirit within me had spoken, but I had silenced it. Never again!
