I Followed My Husband That Night and What I Saw Destroyed 12 Years of Marriage
For twelve years, I believed my marriage was strong. Not perfect, but strong enough. We had survived money problems, sickness, and the stress of raising three children. We lived in Ruiru, Kiambu County, in a quiet estate where everyone knew everyone. My husband, Peter Mwangi, was a respected man. A family man. A man people trusted. I trusted him with my life. That night, I followed him without knowing I was about to lose everything I believed in.
It started with small changes. Peter began coming home late, claiming work meetings in town. His phone never left his hand. He started taking calls outside, even when it was raining. When I asked questions, he became defensive. “You don’t trust me anymore?” he would ask, turning the blame on me. I doubted myself and reminded my heart that this was the man I married. Still, something inside me refused to rest.
That Thursday evening, Peter said he had an urgent meeting in Westlands. He wore his best shirt, sprayed perfume, and left without eating. As soon as the gate closed behind him, my heart started racing. I don’t know what pushed me—fear, instinct, or truth—but I grabbed my sweater, locked the house, and followed him using a taxi. I told myself I just needed peace of mind. I was wrong.
