My best friend showed up at my house yesterday with a swollen face and two boxes.

"My goodness! What happened to your face?" I shouted, grabbing her by the hand and leading her to my couch.

Her lips began to shake while tears rolled down her cheeks.

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"It's Taye!" she managed to mutter.

In shock, I got up. 

"Taye? You mean coursemate, your husband?" She nodded.

I hard a hard time believing it. I was ready to throw a punch.

Taye and my friend were two people who loved fiercely against all odds. My friend came from a wealthy home, while Taye was from an average home. She had fallen madly in love with him, and I just couldn't see what she saw in him, but she told me she felt safe with him.

However, I felt Taye wasn't giving her the love she deserved.

"People love differently, and I love the way he loves me," she had said to me one evening.

When she told her parents about him, her dad kicked against it and threatened not to come for the wedding, but my friend wasn’t bothered and still pushed for the wedding. Eventually, her dad had no choice but to attend.

I had to apologize to her on her second anniversary, expressing that I may have been mistaken about Taye’s love for her, as he seemed to pamper and shower her with many gifts.

"Wait, you mean Taye hit you?" I asked, amazed by what I was seeing. "Were we not at your house on Tuesday night to celebrate your fifth anniversary, and he presented a brand new Venza to you?" I asked, holding her tightly.

She couldn’t answer and began to cry even more.

The ceremony at her house on Tuesday and what I was seeing yesterday were complete opposites. It had been a wonderful ceremony, and my husband had the opportunity to meet her parents, who were also there. In fact, her father took a liking to my husband and gave him a contract to do some drawings for his new building.

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"I've been going through hell for sometime now, and I've just been masking the whole thing," she said, sobbing.

"What! Why did you keep not say anything?" I asked her, my stomach rumbling with rage.

"You have your own money, your parents super rich; I don't really understand!" I continued, letting out my disbelief.

"I didn’t want to mention it to anyone because I thought we would get past it, especially since we have been going through therapy, but I can’t take it anymore," she explained, sobbing.

I couldn’t understand how she managed to put up with this for so long.

After applying first aid, I realized that I hadn’t any painkillers, so I rushed to the closest pharmacy to get some.

When I arrived, I saw that my husband’s car was parked outside. I wasn’t expecting him to be home around that time.Just as I was about to approach the corridor, I heard a loud, unfamiliar voice.

"What exactly do you mean by you don't know who hit you? Ba mi soro jare..." he spoke in Yoruba.

"You to tell me the bastard you call a husband did this to you?"

I dashed in and saw my husband together with her dad.

Apparently, they had arrived to see the sketches my husband had been working on.

I shot my husband a look, asking him why he didn’t let me know that they were coming.

He dramatized that I wasn’t picking up my his calls.

"Why open up to me that this is what you are going through? I can bet that this is not the first time," her dad said in a loud voice. "Let’s get you to the hospital and after that we’re sending that boy behind bars later on."

My husband drove us to the hospital.

Her dad was pained. He put across a few phone calls, and I knew what that meant.

"But sweetie, you are my daughter," he began. "You shouldn't be scared to come back home when you are in a situation. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. You always have a home away from your home," he said, holding her hands.

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I peeped from the rearview mirror and saw him with tears in his eyes looking tenderly into his daughter's eyes."What if you had arrived as a corpse?" he asked"Daddy, don't say that!" She replied, smiling.Right there, I could see the love of a father.

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