He was significantly older than I was. I was a naive 19-year-old in my first year at university, barely out of my childhood home, while he was a working man, seasoned in life and love. My mother always said older men were better—more mature, more stable, more caring. So, when he proposed we start a relationship, I didn’t hesitate. In those first few months, it felt like she was right. Everything was perfect. He was attentive, affectionate, and generous. I thought I had hit the jackpot.

But heaven didn’t last long. Soon, cracks began to appear. Missed calls turned into late replies, which turned into canceled dates. He would disappear for days without a word, only to reappear with no explanation. His mood swings were a storm—one moment we’d be laughing together, and the next, he’d snap over something as trivial as the way I spoke or the tone I used. Then, silence. Days of cold, unbearable silence. I thought it was me. I thought I wasn’t enough, that I was doing something wrong.

Time has a way of unveiling the truth, and the truth was ugly. Men don’t behave like that unless there’s someone else in the picture. If only I had known that sooner, I could have spared myself the self-blame and his constant gaslighting.

Whenever he needed something from me—the comfort of my body or the reassurance of my presence—he’d come running, only to discard me like a used tissue afterward. He thought money could replace affection, that his generosity excused his behavior. For a while, I let it. I was young, foolish, and desperate for his love.

One day, I was at his house. Something felt off. His fridge was stocked with neatly packed containers of homemade meals. I didn’t cook them. Who did? Curiosity burned inside me, but I knew better than to ask. He would turn the blame on me, twist my questions into accusations of paranoia. So I stayed quiet, but I watched. I waited for an opportunity to get close to his phone—the one thing he guarded with his life. It wasn’t easy. It took days, maybe weeks, but I finally managed to unlock it.

What I found shattered me. Another woman. It was all there in the messages—the sweet words, the plans, the love he so freely gave to someone else while tossing me crumbs. I broke down, tears streaming as I clutched the evidence of his betrayal. When he discovered what I had done, he didn’t apologize. No, he was angry. Furious that I dared to uncover his lies. He screamed, cursed, and kicked me out of his house like I was the one in the wrong.

I was too ashamed to cry at home. My siblings would mock me, turn my pain into a joke. So I went to my friend’s house instead. I cried on her shoulder until her clothes were damp with my tears. At night, I’d drag myself home, exhausted and empty, and collapse into bed.

I couldn’t let go. I was desperate. I borrowed my friend’s phone and called him, begging for another chance. He ignored me. He blocked me. I was invisible to him. In a final, pathetic attempt, I convinced my friend to pretend to be my mother and invite him over for a talk. It didn’t work. He never came. My friend left town that Friday, and with her gone, I had no place to cry.

That night, I wandered into a church. They were holding a night vigil. The hall was filled with the sound of prayers, clapping, and worship. I joined them, blending into the crowd. I wasn’t praying. I wasn’t singing. I was wailing, pouring out my heartbreak in sobs disguised as spiritual fervor. I rolled on the floor, tears streaming, my chest heaving. Everyone thought I was deep in the spirit. They clapped harder, and shouted louder, urging me on. Only God knew the truth. I wasn’t having a divine encounter. I was just a girl with a broken heart, crying her soul out in a place where no one could question her.

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Now, when I think back to that night, I laugh. The heartbreaks that came after never drove me to such a display again. But back then, I was young, desperate, and drowning in my first real taste of love’s cruelty. I suffered, but I survived. And sometimes, survival is the greatest victory of all.