Instead, I found an empty living room. The sofa the one my husband and I had saved months for, the one where we celebrated birthdays and quiet evenings was gone. At first, I thought perhaps it had been moved.
But when I asked him about it, the smell of alcohol hit me before I even saw him. He had staggered into the house, a foolish grin plastered on his face, and casually said, “Relax, we’ll buy another one tomorrow.” That casual response made my blood boil.
I realized then that his drinking had escalated far beyond weekend indulgence. It was a problem, one that had invaded our home and threatened our family stability. For years, I had tried reasoning with him, pleading with him, and even covering for him when his drinking caused embarrassment.
But selling our furniture for beer crossed a line I could no longer ignore. I felt trapped between my love for him and the need to protect my children and our home. That night, I decided to handle the situation quietly but decisively kinyumbani.
I did not scream or confront him in public; instead, I spoke calmly, outlining the consequences of his actions. I explained how his behavior had affected the children and me. I set clear boundaries: no alcohol in the house, full transparency about money, and structured accountability.CONTINUE READING...
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