My Life Has Never Been The Same Ever Since I Ate My Husband’s Condensed Milk –
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My Life Has Never Been The Same Ever Since I Ate My Husband’s Condensed Milk

Our marriage was only three months old when I saw my husband smoking for the first time. I was surprised. I thought it was a joke to see how I would react. I quickly took it from his hand and threw it away. I got burned on the finger, but I wasn’t too bothered. I said, “Why would you joke like that? It’s not funny, don’t do it again.” Then he showed me the whole pack in his pocket. I asked, “Are you okay? Where did you get this?” He told me, “I started when I was in secondary school.”

“You mean you’ve been doing it even when we were dating?”

“It wasn’t regular. I did it sometimes.”

“Wow. You make me feel like I didn’t know you.”

“No, that’s not true. I’ve been trying to quit, but I keep going back to it.”

“Then today will be the last time.”

We dated for almost two years. He was a friend for over three years, I never suspected that he could do such a thing. This is a man I found in the church. He got me with his dedication to the things of the Lord. He never missed church and never missed an opportunity to talk about the Lord to anyone who will listen. I asked him, “So God knows you’ve been smoking? Or did you hide it from Him too?” He found my question funny, but I was serious. I just didn’t understand how I could be so close to him for all those years and still not notice that habit of his.

I took the pack from him and said, “Promise me. Promise me that it won’t happen again.” He walked away from me. I looked at the pack and thought about what to do with it. In the end, I put it in my drawer with the intention of throwing it away later. I forgot about it for two days.

When I went back, it was gone. I called him, “Tony, did you take the pack?” He smiled at me. I asked, “What did you do with it? Did you finish it or throw it away?” Again, he smiled. I understood what he meant by those smiles. I felt like a failure, like a fool who laughs at their own jokes.

We had a serious conversation that lasted for almost two hours. When we went to bed, we continued talking until one of us fell asleep. We brainstormed on how he could quit and what kind of help he needed.

I asked if anyone else knew, and he said only a couple of his friends. He had hidden it so well that none of his family members knew. I told him, “No one knows, that’s why it’s hard for you to quit. We’ll have to tell someone you can be accountable to.” He said, “Now you know. Help me be accountable to you.”

It got worse. He stopped hiding it and would do it in the house in front of me. The scents were different. I don’t know the differences, but some scents were stronger than others. I pressed him, and he confessed that sometimes he did weed. I yelled, “You mean marijuana?” He said, “I don’t do it often, trust me.”

That confession drained all the romance out of me. I couldn’t kiss him anymore. I was afraid I would get high. He touched me, and I recoiled. I started avoiding him. When he got high and came to me at night, it wasn’t loving. It would last all night, and I wouldn’t enjoy it. I would feel sore and start getting cuts. Because of that, I dreaded the night. I wore jeans shorts to bed. If there was a cage, I would have locked myself in to keep him away.

For three years, he smoked heavily. All attempts to get him to quit failed. I told his parents, and they didn’t believe me until I sent them photos. They called him home and talked to him. They told me, “We’ve talked to him. He listened and promised to stop. Keep an eye on him. If he starts again, tell us.” But it seemed like every week, I was reporting him to them, so eventually, they gave up too.

After all that, on Sundays, he would wake me up and tell me to get ready for church. There was this young pastor in our church whom everyone respected, including my husband. When all hope was lost, I went to the pastor and complained. He was surprised and called my husband to talk. His humility in front of the pastor made me emotional. The pastor advised, “Don’t give the devil a chance.”

We had been married for three years without a child. I brought that up while we were still with the pastor. I said, “I believe it’s why God hasn’t blessed us with a child. He doesn’t want our baby to start using drugs from day one.”

In the end, the pastor helped him quit. He told him, “Whenever you want to do it, drink water and call me.” He listened, and for a whole year, they worked together until my husband stopped smoking. We started working toward having a child. It took us three more years before we finally conceived.

You can imagine my happiness when I found out I was pregnant. Everything around me became beautiful. I thanked my husband every morning, even when he hadn’t done anything special. I prayed for the baby growing inside me.

I was washing my husband’s clothes when I found condensed milk toffee in his pocket. I thought, “He’s started buying these toffees in traffic? A grown man like him eating toffees?” I ate it and suddenly felt weak. I couldn’t get up, my vision blurred, and my heart burned. I fell off the chair. He found me and took me to the hospital.

He was crying when I woke up. I asked him what happened, but he couldn’t say. Later, the nurse told me I had lost the pregnancy. He begged me not to tell the doctor about the toffee. He said, “Please, don’t mention what you ate. I beg you, or I’ll end up in jail.”

The doctor asked about what I ate, but I lied and said I didn’t remember. I was discharged and went home, crying for days. That toffee wasn’t just a toffee. He said it was called “Lord of the Toffee.”

He stopped smoking because we complained. He started putting weed in food and drinks so we wouldn’t know. I packed my things and left for my parents’ house. He begged me to come back, promising never to touch it again.

I listened to him and went back home. For the last three years, we’ve been trying to have a baby, but it hasn’t happened. Yes, he has stopped, and he’s honest with me now. He tells me everything, but what matters to me now is having a baby. I’m thirty-five, going on thirty-six. Every day, I’m scared. When I see my period, my heart breaks. I pray it’s not the end of the road for us.

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