Prayers and Lies
I had always been a master of mischief. The older I got, the bolder I became—skating through life with a level of audacity that should’ve been studied in textbooks. My mother, Lillith, was a force of nature, and by force, I mean a hurricane in stilettos. My father? A gentle man, too gentle for a woman like her. He tried—Lord knows he did—to instill some moral compass in me, but my mother? She shattered that compass every chance she got.
She was the chairperson of our local church, a woman revered for her piety, yet behind closed doors, she was rewriting the Ten Commandments one sin at a time. Faithful? Not in this lifetime. She cheated on my father and made sure I understood why he deserved it—because he was weak, because he was boring, because he was a man who believed in forgiveness, and forgiveness was for fools.
And me? Well, I was my mother’s son. Loyalty ran in my blood, but only in one direction—toward her. She supported my every misdeed, cheered me on from the sidelines as I got away with everything. I was untouchable, invincible, or so I thought.
Life moved quickly. College came and went. I landed a respectable job, met a woman named Olive—smart, accomplished, the kind of woman society applauds. The moment I saw her, I knew she was it. But, of course, my mother disapproved. Said she had an air of independence she didn’t like. That was code for “She might be too strong-willed to manipulate.”
For the first time, I stood my ground. And by stood my ground, I mean I convinced my mother that Olive could be… molded. So, begrudgingly, she let it be. Marriage followed, then two years in, a pregnancy. Twins. We decided on Koir, the king of light, and Mika, who is like God. The irony was not lost on me—I was about as godly as a vulture at a funeral.
Olive changed after the twins were born. Postpartum hit her like a freight train, and I, in my infinite selfishness, expected her to manage the baby, the house, and my ever-growing expectations. My mother, as always, had my back. “A woman needs discipline,” she’d whisper, her voice laced with disdain every time Olive seemed overwhelmed.
I could hear my wife crying at night. I slept through it like it was a lullaby.
Years passed, and nothing changed—at least not for me. Olive was still praying through the misery, still thinking love and faith could solve what I had no intention of fixing. I, on the other hand, was plotting. I wanted another child, but I didn’t want her to think it was my idea. So I did what any morally bankrupt husband would do—I lied. I convinced her we were focusing on our careers, on raising the twins. Meanwhile, my pharmacist friend slipped me medication to boost ovulation. And every morning, I blended those little miracles into her “healthy” smoothies.
When she got pregnant, I put on an Oscar-worthy performance. Shock. Disappointment. “How could you be so careless?” I wailed while secretly revelling in my victory. I tormented her with guilt, made her believe she had failed me. And just like that, another child was on the way.
Fifteen years. That’s how long we’ve been at this game. She’s still here, still bound by the shackles of prayers that never get answered. My mother still pulls the strings, and Olive still sees me as her knight in shining armour. She doesn’t make decisions without me, and can’t imagine life outside of me. I’ve ensured it. Her career? Sabotaged. Her independence? Erased. Her mind? Mine.
Even when small flickers of rebellion sparked within her, they were extinguished before they could become flames. The rare moments she considered leaving, I found ways to remind her that she wouldn’t survive without me. A strategically placed compliment here, a reminder of how much she needed me there, and, if all else failed, a call to my mother to “correct” her thinking.
And tonight, as I sit across from her at the dinner table, she smiles—a tired, resigned smile. She still prays. She still hopes. But we both know the truth.
She’s not going anywhere.
And me? I won. I always do.
