When I married Miriam, I was convinced I had won the lottery of life. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and deeply religious. Everyone admired her calm nature and the way she carried herself with humility. She prayed every morning, never raised her voice, and treated me with a kindness that felt almost unreal. Friends joked that I had married an angel, and honestly, I believed them. After years of failed relationships, I thought God had finally rewarded my patience.
Our marriage began like a dream. The house was peaceful, meals were warm, and my wife seemed devoted beyond measure. She encouraged me, supported my work, and never argued. If we disagreed, she would simply smile and say, “Peace is better than being right.” I took pride in telling people that my wife had no drama. No complaints. No demands. I didn’t realize then that silence can also be a mask.
After a few months, small things started bothering me. Neighbours would suddenly go quiet when I approached. Conversations would stop mid-sentence. Some women avoided greeting me altogether, while others looked at me with strange pity. At first, I assumed it was jealousy. After all, people talk when they see a happy home. But the feeling grew heavier. Even children would whisper and run away when I passed. Something was off, but I couldn’t place it.
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