When We Buried Our Son Our Marriage Went With Him

Five years after marriage, my wife got pregnant. It was the happiest day in our lives as a married couple. We had gone through shame and name-calling. Friends made jokes about us right in front of us because of our inability to have a child, without thinking about how we would feel. Even those who asked why we were not able to have a child did so with a tone of malice. I didn’t cry, but my wife did. Almost every night, she had a reason to shed tears until finally we conceived.

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We named him Isaiah. He was our happy song, the reason we could walk around with our shoulders high, telling the world that we too were capable of conceiving. He became the eye of our bond, and as new parents, we did all we could to love him and provide a conducive environment for him to grow.

During the lockdown, when the world was locked away by a plague, we experienced a special form of plague that snatched our happiness away. Isaiah was then crawling. He would hold anything and use the grip to stand on his feet. I was in the hall; my wife was in the bathroom when we heard a shrill scream followed by a baam sound from the kitchen. I quickly rushed to the kitchen to find him on the floor with hot water poured on him. I think the dadesain the water was in also hit his head because his tongue was sticking out of his mouth.

We quickly rushed him to the hospital with our hearts in our mouths. My wife blamed me for taking my eyes off him. I said I didn’t know how he got to the kitchen. All of a sudden, my wife turned into a beast, warning me to pray that he got better. “Pray nothing happens to him. Pray hard.” She was crying; I was crying too.

Describing what our baby went through before losing his life the next day would be too graphic. My heart can’t even stand it, but Isaiah suffered. He lost his skin. He fought hard, but in the end, death won. We came home empty-handed, and that was when our marriage started breaking apart. In my wife’s mind and soul, I was responsible. Yes, I accepted responsibility, but it didn’t make the pain go away. It made it worse.

She moved out of the house because she couldn’t stand the memories of what happened. Everyone said I should give her grace and space to heal, as if I didn’t need the same to heal. We were a couple in turmoil. We needed to heal together, but she saw me as the villain. She didn’t forgive me. My presence reminded her of my mistakes, so she moved back to her parents’ house.

I got a new place and moved our belongings to this new apartment. I thought that would make us better and help us heal quicker. I called her and told her I’d moved to a new place, so she should come back home. That was the day she told me she didn’t think she could continue with the marriage. The next hour, I was in her parents’ house. I told her dad what my wife had said. He responded, “She has informed us. I know it’s pain. Just allow a little time. She’ll run back to you.”

I spoke to our pastor, the one who counseled us before marriage. He dedicated four months of his time to praying and counseling us. Nothing changed. It rather gave my wife the perfect excuse to stay away from me. She would say, “I’m still waiting to hear what God will say.”

One day, our pastor told me, “Stop chasing her around. Cut all connections to her, and let’s see what will happen. I’m praying for you. Everything will be fine.”

I stopped calling. I stopped visiting. I cut all connections, but I couldn’t cut myself off from the fear that said I was losing my wife. I lived like a bachelor. We went to church in nose masks, so I would see my wife but wouldn’t see her full face. I missed her, but I had to pretend I didn’t see her.

We were separated for almost eight months. I woke up one late night and couldn’t sleep. My heart felt heavy, and memories of Isaiah rushed through my head. I walked from my house for almost an hour to where my wife was. When I knocked, it was her father who came to meet me. I told him, “I want to spend the night here.”

He let me in, and I walked to where she was sleeping and slept next to her. She was awake. She knew I was around. She could hear my voice where she was sleeping. She asked me, “What do you want?” I answered, “I came to spend the night with my wife.”

She shifted to give me space to sleep. I put my hand around her, and she didn’t fight it. We remained like that until I slept off. It was the deepest sleep I’d ever had since the incident. It was the sun that sneaked through the window to wake us up in the morning. I said, “What are you still waiting for? Shouldn’t we go through this hard time together?” She answered, “You go. I’ll come back.”

A week later, she was home with me. She apologized. I apologized too. She cried. I cried too. Starting all over again is always difficult, but we were determined. Three months later, she was pregnant. In March 2023, we had a girl. We named her Ayɛyi, a symbol of our gratitude to God.

What Will Make You Leave Me After Forty Years Of Marriage?

In 2025, before the bell would toll to usher us into 2026, we had another baby, a boy. We named him Isaiah. He’s our Isaiah, chapter two, verse two: “The mountain of the LORD’s house shall be established in the top of the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills…”

We are the family the Lord showed mercy to. He picked us from the bottom of the hill and established us on top of the mountain so all shall see His goodness.

—Essel  

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