I grew up as an orphan after losing my father—he was murdered by our neighbor. Ironically, my father had shown kindness to this man’s family while he was still alive.

Eight years ago, I became a widow with four children, and we lived in extreme poverty. During the war, my children and I were constantly on the move, fleeing from place to place, often with no safe place to sleep.

My husband? A master of vanishing acts at night, leaving me to handle everything on my own. Years of suffering, resentment, and tears piled up, leaving me feeling hopeless.

One of my deepest scars came from my sister-in-law. We were once close, but betrayal tore us apart. What followed was not just a falling-out, but a hatred that festered for years. I couldn’t forgive her. In truth, I couldn’t forgive anyone who had ever hurt me. I kept my pain hidden, but it quietly ruled every part of my life.

I had constant quarrels with my husband. We argued endlessly without truly listening to each other. Our communication was broken—we would raise our voices, cutting each other off, and it only made things worse. The situation deteriorated to the point where my husband left our bedroom. My heart was shattered, and I couldn’t understand his reaction.