Invisible Marriage

Invisible Marriage; undefined Love

By Josephine I Okoduwa

Chapter One: Invisible Marriage

I often say my marriage was broken before it even began.

Not because of betrayal or abuse, perhaps because love was never its foundation.

We met through a family friend of both of us —a kind woman whose warmth made people feel safe. One faithful afternoon, she accompanied him to my house, introduced me to him, smiling knowingly as if she could already see a wedding on the horizon.

“This is the woman I told you about,” she said to him.

He smiled gently and extended his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

He had a calm voice, confident and mature, the kind that could easily win a woman’s heart. And mine, at that time, was ready to be won.

We talked for hours that afternoon . He spoke about his dreams, his struggles, and his faith. There was something real about him—steady and honest. When he finally said, “I want to marry you,” it sounded like a promise written in stone.

I let my heart believe him.

Days turned into weeks, and our relationship blossomed—or so I thought. I gave him my time, my trust, and eventually, my body. It wasn’t lust; it was commitment. I believed I was giving myself to my future husband.

But six months later, he disappeared.

No calls. No letters. Just silence.

I remember sitting alone in my room one night, clutching my phone to my chest, whispering through tears, “What did I do wrong?”

The walls gave no answer.

Then, a few weeks later, life answered in its own way—I discovered I was pregnant.

At first, I was frozen. Then came a flood of fear, shame, and confusion. I cried quietly, thinking of my parents, my church, my future. I felt abandoned, left to face motherhood alone. I had a great job in the banking sector, that I just started working, less than a year old.

I went back to the family friend who had introduced us. Her eyes widened when she heard the news. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “We’ll find him.”

And she did.

When he returned, he wasn’t the same man I fell for. His face carried guilt, maybe even resentment. He looked at my belly and sighed.

“So it’s true,” he said flatly.

I nodded, too tired to speak.

He began to visit, we hung out, and he took me to his house for weekends . But there was no plans for marriage rights or ceremony.

His younger brother who came from overseas for a visit , ntervened soon after. “You can’t just walk away, and not do the right things ,” he told him. “Pay her bride price”. “Make this right, let your child be legitimate.” I overheard their conversation.

And so, one quiet afternoon, surrounded by elders and witnesses from both sides , he did. A big introduction and traditional marriage ceremony, with lots of food, drinks, music, and a transaction of tradition, and suddenly, I was his wife.

That night, as I lay beside him, the reality hit me like cold water—I had entered a marriage without love.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t that violent.But he was absent, even in presence, he sometimes was emotionally and psychologically abusive . When I tried to hold his hand or be friendly , he would pull away gently, whispering, “Don’t mistake this for love, I have no affections for you.”

I stopped trying.

Yet, from this hollow bond, four lovely and beautiful children were born. Three boys and one girl—each a living testimony that life can grow even in barren soil.

We had lived sixteen years together under the same roof. The marriage was legalized under the Constitution of our homeland. Then, came another turning point.

He migrated from our home country in Africa to a Western country in search of greener pastures. At first, I thought the distance would break what little connection remained between us. But strangely, it gave us both relief.

He could build his life without the weight of emotional obligation, and I could raise my children without the daily reminder of rejection.

Still, he never truly left. He called often enough, sent money, and filed for us to become citizens of westerner.

However, we stayed separated in the new country , visited when he could. And whenever he came home, there was still that spark of routine intimacy—never spontaneous, never tender, but mechanical and familiar.

At his own pace, at his convenience.

To the world, we remained a married couple. Our families spoke proudly of us. To our children, we were partners holding things together. But I knew the truth. Ours was an invisible marriage—a structure without substance, held up by duty and endurance.

Sometimes, I would sit alone at night, the wind whispering through the window curtains, and wonder: Is this what marriage was meant to be?

Yet, I could not bring myself to call it failure.

Because in its own strange way, it worked. It gave my children stability. It gave me a name, a home, and a story of resilience. And maybe, it gave him peace too.

I learned to stop expecting romance and start embracing reality. Love didn’t come, but peace did—and I chose peace.

Now, thirty-five years later, people still say we have one of the strongest marriages they know. I smile and nod. I don’t correct them. After all, not every truth needs to be spoken.

Chapter Two: The Strength of a Silent Woman

Raising four children while pretending not to be alone takes a special kind of strength.

When he left for the West, I stood at the gate of our apartment with our children, waving goodbye as if I wasn’t secretly relieved. The children cried; I didn’t. Not because I didn’t care, but because I already knew what life apart would mean—freedom wrapped in loneliness.

At home, I became mother and father. I worked hard, managed bills, attended school meetings, cooked, and prayed through every storm. The house was full of laughter, though my heart was often heavy.

On nights when the children were asleep, I would sit in the living room, staring at our marriage photograph—a stiff picture of two strangers smiling for the camera. I’d whisper, “We made it this far… but how?”

He called often enough to check on us. Sometimes, his voice softened when he spoke to the children. “I’m proud of you,” he’d tell them. But with me, conversations were brief and practical—about work, money, school, or family, but no romantic talk.

Yet whenever he returned to visit, we fell into that familiar rhythm—quiet, predictable, and strangely comforting. He would sit in the living room, ask about my work, and play with the children, get a few groceries, take us to church and tried to catchups . At night, he’d reach for me—not out of love, but out of routine. And I let him, because I’d stopped expecting anything more.

Some might call it weakness, but I call it acceptance.

In my heart, I stopped being his wife long ago. But I remained his partner in purpose—for the children, for the name, for the peace that pretending sometimes brings.

Now, as I look back, I realize that life gave me more than I asked for, though not in the form I wanted. My invisible marriage became my silent teacher. It taught me patience, forgiveness, endurance, and the quiet art of letting go without walking away.

Chapter Three: Finding Myself Again

For years, I lived in the shadow of duty.

I was a wife without romance, a mother without rest, and a woman who had forgotten her own name somewhere between routine and responsibility.

My awakening came quietly, one faithful day on social media . The pastor preached about purpose beyond pain, and his words hit me harder than I expected.

He said, “Sometimes God breaks what you thought you needed, to give you what you truly need—yourself.”

That week, I bought a journal. On the first page, I wrote:

“I am more than someone’s wife.

I am more than someone’s mother.

I am a woman with dreams yet to live.”

It was the first time I’d written something just for me in years.

I started to take care of myself again—not just in appearance, but in spirit. I took a trip to United Kingdom on a vacation, then to my home town in Africa. I joined a women’s fellowship group. I went back to school, batch’s a new career . I took a job that challenged me and filled my days with purpose.

Through faith, work, and the warmth of my children, I began to rediscover joy. My invisible marriage no longer defined me. It shaped me—but it didn’t own me.

I had learned to find love in unexpected places: in the laughter of my children, in the quiet of prayer, in the satisfaction of purpose, and in the healing power of forgiveness.

Chapter Four: A New Season

There comes a time in every woman’s life when the silence inside her begins to speak louder than the voices around her.

That woman was now me. My pain had become my platform. I began sharing my story at women’s I came across , social media platforms, and gatherings. What started as trembling honesty became a ministry of healing for many others.

Women would come to me after meetings, tears in their eyes. “Ma, you inspired us, you motivated us, you spoke my story,” one said softly. “I’ve been in a marriage like yours. I thought I was alone.”

I smiled and held her hands. “You’re not alone, my dear. And you’re stronger than you think.”

From then on, doors opened. Schools invited me to speak. Community groups asked me to mentor young women. I started writing, first privately, then publicly.

I had stepped fully into my new season: visible, empowered, and free.

Chapter Five: The Power of Becoming

There’s something powerful about a woman who finally knows who she is.

I no longer waited for love—I radiated it through purpose. I mentored, inspired, and guided others. The children noticed. My eldest son said, “Mum, I used to think you were just strong. Now I know you’re extraordinary.”

Even he—the man who once couldn’t love me—watched quietly from a distance. During one visit, he said, “You’ve changed. You look… peaceful.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Because I stopped fighting for what wasn’t mine to win.”

I had become a woman visible in her own right, no longer defined by absence, duty, or invisible love.

Chapter Six: When the Heart Remembers

His voice had changed. The indifference was gone, replaced by hesitation. He spoke of a mansion he was building for us, planning for us to live there when he retired.

I listened, touched but wary. Remorse without apology—he tried to make amends not with words but with walls. I had learned that love can return as peace, not passion.

He reached for me again—not as a lover, but as a man seeking reconciliation with time. And I welcomed him with wisdom, not expectation.

Chapter Seven: The House We Never Built

The mansion neared completion, yet our real home had long existed—in our children, grandchildren, and shared memories.

Michael, our eldest, had a daughter with his wife Grace. Daniel lived independently . Anita has a child with her husband, and Joseph, our youngest, still sought his path.

Family gatherings became full of laughter and warmth. He watched quietly, content. He may never have been the husband I dreamed of, but he became the father and grandfather our family needed.

The mansion was impressive, but the true house had been built years ago—in love, faith, patience, tolerance, endurance, resilience, forgiveness, and legacy.

Epilogue: Reflections on Invisible Love

Life rarely unfolds the way we imagine. Sometimes, love comes wrapped in silence, duty, or absence. Sometimes, what we call marriage is not the fairytale we dreamed of, but something quieter, harder, and infinitely more complex.

I have lived a life of contrasts—love and indifference, presence and absence, duty and freedom. My marriage was invisible, yet it shaped me in ways I never expected. It taught me patience, resilience, and the quiet strength of endurance. It gave me children, grandchildren, and a legacy that no absence could erase.

Through it all, I learned that happiness doesn’t always come from romance or perfect circumstances. It comes from acceptance, from finding peace in the spaces life leaves us, and from creating meaning even in brokenness.

To anyone reading this: love does not have to look the way you imagined. It can be messy, unconventional, and imperfect. But if you live it with grace, integrity, and faith, it can still be beautiful.

Our invisible marriage may never have been the story I imagined in my youth, but it became the story I needed. And for that, I am grateful.