The Weight of One Man's Love

 Philip and Prisca’s love began like a dream—gentle, warm, and full of promises. Before marriage, Prisca was everything Philip thought a woman could be: loving, caring, tender, always asking if he had eaten or slept well. Philip believed he had found a treasure, and when they finally got married, he walked into his new home with joy overflowing.

A year later, Prisca became pregnant. She stopped working so she could rest and prepare for motherhood. Philip did not complain. “She will return to work when the baby is born,” he told himself. He worked harder, smiling through the stress, believing the sacrifices were temporary.

But even after their baby turned two, Prisca refused to work. She stayed home from morning till night doing nothing, yet complaining that she was tired. Philip, determined to provide a good life for his family, pushed himself beyond human limits.

Every morning at 3:00 a.m., he woke up quietly, slipped out of the room, and went to drive his small taxi. By 6:00 a.m., he returned just long enough to dress up their child and take her to school. Then he rushed to his office job.

By 4:00 p.m., when most men were going home to rest, Philip’s second shift began. He picked up bread from a company and delivered it to customers. From there he continued taxiing, trying to gather something small to support the home.

It was usually 8:00 p.m. when he returned home—exhausted, dusty, and starving. After eating and bathing, it was already 11:00 p.m., giving him barely four hours of sleep before 3:00 a.m. came again. His body was wearing out, but he kept going because love had made him hopeful.

What hurt the most wasn’t poverty. It was Prisca’s attitude.

The woman who used to act loving before marriage had transformed into a cold, lazy, and selfish wife. Even though she stayed home every single day, she claimed she was “tired of house chores.” She demanded that Philip hire a maid.

Philip hesitated, but he remembered the nights he washed dishes with shaky hands and washed clothes with burning eyes. He finally agreed, hoping that with a maid, he could take more side hustles and reduce their struggles.

Then fortune smiled. Philip got a new job that paid better than the old one. Instead of being happy, Prisca began making endless demands—luxuries far beyond his salary and side hustles. She didn’t care how he was suffering or how he barely had time to breathe.

One afternoon, Philip returned home to find four new faces in his two-bedroom apartment. Prisca had brought her parents and two siblings to live with them without informing him.

His house became crowded. His food finishes faster. His salary stretched thin. His peace disappeared completely.

Every night, Philip came home later—sometimes 12:00 a.m.—doing more taxi work to feed six adults and a child. His face grew lean. His smile faded. He tried talking to Prisca, but she wouldn’t listen. He called pastors to speak to her, but she ignored them. He even confronted her parents, begging them to return home, but they accused him of trying to sack them.

Day by day, Philip retreated into silence. He laughed less. Slept less. Lived less. His marriage was collapsing, and he was the only one fighting to hold it up.

One hot afternoon, when the sun stood cruelly in the middle of the sky, Prisca received a phone call.

“Hello, Philip?” she asked casually.

A trembling voice answered, “This is not him… it’s Jonathan, his friend.”

Prisca frowned. “Why are you with his phone?”

Jonathan hesitated, breathing hard. “Prisca… I’m at Rivers Hospital. Philip fainted this afternoon at work. We rushed him here but… he couldn’t make it.”

Prisca sat up. “What do you mean he couldn’t make it? Jonathan, what do you—”

But the call ended.

Just like that… the man who had given everything—his strength, his youth, his sleep, his happiness—was gone. Not because he wanted to, but because life squeezed him until he couldn’t breathe anymore.

At the funeral, people wept. Philip’s friends cried openly. His colleagues spoke of how hard he worked, how kind he was. His child kept asking, “Where is Daddy?” But Daddy wasn’t coming home.

After the burial, Prisca’s parents quietly packed their bags and returned to their home—the same home they refused to go back to when Philip was alive.

And Prisca? She cried. She wailed. She mourned. But everyone who knew Philip asked the same silent question:

Does Prisca have the right to mourn a man she helped destroy?

Because Philip didn’t die from sickness.

He didn’t die from an accident.

He died from exhaustion… from stress… from carrying a marriage alone… from being married to a woman who cared only for herself.

Till today, Prisca still cries for Philip. But her tears came too late.