I got my first beating from my husband on our wedding night – Depressed lady shares

If you had seen us on that wedding day, you would have thought I had found my forever.

He looked perfect. Clean white agbada, soft voice, handsome face. He smiled at me like he couldn’t believe I was his. The whole church clapped when we exchanged vows. People said we were the couple of the year. Even my mother cried when he slipped the ring on my finger.

I thought I was lucky.

I was wrong.

The first slap came just six hours after we said “I do”.

We had just checked into the hotel where we were meant to spend our first night as husband and wife. I had removed my wig, washed my face, and sat beside him on the bed.

I made a joke—just a simple, silly joke about how fast the food we ordered took to arrive. He didn’t laugh. Instead, he asked if I was trying to “act like a man” on the first night.

I laughed again, confused. Then I heard it.

The slap.

It wasn’t small. It was the kind that made my ears ring and my eyes blur.

I sat there frozen.

He said, “You’re my wife now. Don’t talk to me like we’re mates.”

But I Stayed… And That’s the Part I Struggle to Explain

I should have left. I know that now. But I told myself it was stress. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe I triggered him. Maybe… maybe… maybe.

That night, he made love to me like nothing happened. And I cried into the pillow silently, wondering how my dream had crumbled in less than 24 hours.

But I didn’t tell anyone.

For months, I wore makeup over bruises. I made excuses for why I limped. I smiled in public and cooked his favorite meals at home.

Every apology came with flowers.
Every slap came with silence.
Every scream came with a sweet text the next day.

And I lived in that prison for over a year.

Until the Day He Almost Killed Me

One evening, I forgot to boil his water.

That was the trigger.

He dragged me into the kitchen, poured cold water on my head, and slammed me against the cabinet. I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital.

That was the day I left.

Not because I was brave.
But because I realized if I stayed one more week, my story would’ve ended in a casket.

Why I’m Sharing This

I’m not looking for pity.

I’m looking for someone who might be in what I escaped.

If that’s you—run. Before your name becomes a hashtag. Before your family gets a call they can’t forget.

Don’t stay because of shame. Don’t stay because of fear. Don’t stay because of a ring.

Have you or someone you love ever had to walk away from something that looked perfect from the outside, but was destroying them inside? Share your story. You might help someone finally find the strength to run.