Title: My Wife Slept With A Military Man
Episode 23: The Results – The Day the Truth Finally Spoke
Peace was six months old when the envelope arrived.
I had driven to Lagos myself to collect the results from the private lab—no mailing, no risk of anyone else seeing. The doctor handed it to me personally, his face kind but serious.
“Mr. Bokime, whatever is inside, remember these children are innocent. And you are a good man for seeking truth this way.”
I thanked him, hands trembling slightly, and drove to a quiet hotel nearby. I didn’t open it in the car—I needed space, privacy.
In the room, I sat on the bed, envelope in my lap, and prayed longer than I ever had for a single moment.
“Lord, give me strength for whatever this says. Help me love these children no matter what. Heal my heart. Show me the way forward.”
Then I opened it.
Four separate reports—one for each child.
First: Favor.
Probability of paternity: 99.9998%.
She was mine.
Relief flooded me, mixed with tears. My firstborn—truly mine.
Second: David (one of the twins).
Probability: 0%.
Not mine.
Third: Covenant.
Probability: 0%.
Not mine.
Fourth: Peace.
Probability: 99.9999%.
Mine.
I sat there for hours, reports spread on the bed, crying quietly.
Two mine. Two not.
The twins—those beautiful, energetic boys I had carried on my shoulders, taught to pray, called “Daddy” with their sweet voices—were the fruit of betrayal.
But Peace and Favor were mine. God’s mercy in the storm.
I drove home that evening, reports hidden in my bag.
The house was warm with life—Favor doing homework at the table, the twins playing with blocks, Peace in his bouncer cooing at Imaobong as she prepared dinner.
She looked up when I entered, smiled softly. “Welcome home, Ime. Food is almost ready.”
I nodded, managed a smile for the children, helped with baths and bedtime as usual.
But inside, I was on fire.
After the children slept, I called her to the living room.
“Sit down.”
She sat, sensing the shift in my tone.
I placed the envelope on the table.
“I did DNA tests. For all four children. Privately. The results came today.”
Her face went pale.
“Ime… why? After Peace… after everything…”
“Because I needed truth. Not guesses. Not hope. Truth.”
I opened the envelope, slid the reports toward her.
She picked them up with shaking hands, read one by one.
When she reached the twins, she gasped, covered her mouth.
Tears fell fast.
“Ime… I…”
Then she saw Peace and Favor—mine—and sobbed harder.
“I told you the twins… might not be… but I prayed they were. I hoped…”
I sat across from her, voice calm but firm.
“Peace is mine. Favor is mine. The twins are not. They are his.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
I continued. “You knew. All along, you knew there was a chance—maybe even certainty—and you refused tests every time I asked. You let me raise another man’s children as my own. You let me love them, invest in them, call them my sons—while hiding the truth.”
She fell to her knees. “I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of what people would say. I thought if we never knew for sure, we could keep the family…”
“That wasn’t your choice to make,” I said, voice breaking. “It was mine. I had a right to know who I was raising, who I was giving my name, my life, my heart to.”
We quarreled—not shouting, because the children were sleeping, but deeply.
She insisted the doctor must have made a mistake. “Labs get it wrong sometimes! We can do another test!”
I shook my head. “This was the best lab in the country. Two samples each. Independent confirmation. It’s not a mistake.”
She cried, begged, promised anything—separation from the twins, therapy, whatever I wanted.
But I was done.
“I’ve forgiven you many times,” I said. “I stayed for the children. I tried to rebuild. But this… knowing for certain that you let me live a lie for years… I can’t carry it anymore.”
She wailed quietly. “Don’t leave us. Please. The children need their father.”
“They need truth too,” I replied. “And I need peace.”
That night, I slept in the guest room.
The next days were agony.
I told my parents. My mother collapsed—literally fainted in their living room when I showed her the reports. She was rushed to hospital, but the shock was too much. Her heart couldn’t take it. She passed two days later.
My father wept like a child. “I warned you, my son. We warned you. But God will carry you.”
The family gathered, mourned. Imaobong came to the funeral, dressed in black, holding Peace, the children confused but quiet.
People whispered. Some knew pieces of the story. Some guessed.
After the burial, I sat with my father.
“I’m ending the marriage,” I said.
He nodded, tears in his eyes. “It’s time. You’ve carried enough.”
Imaobong begged one last time when we returned home.
“For the children. Stay. We can live as brother and sister if you want. Just don’t break the home.”
But I couldn’t.
The lesson from that day? Truth, when finally faced, can hurt more than lies—but it also sets you free. Living in deception destroys slowly. Living in truth, even painful truth, allows healing to begin.
The results confirmed what my heart had feared.
Peace and Favor were mine.
The twins were not.
And the woman I married had chosen lies over love, again and again.
I was angry—at her, at myself, at the years lost.
But mostly, I was grieving.
Grieving the marriage that never truly was.
Grieving the family I thought I had.
Grieving the trust that died.
The divorce papers would come soon.
But first, I had to figure out how to be a father to four children—two by blood, two by choice—when the home we built was crumbling.
God, give me strength.
Because the worst was not over.
It was just beginning.
Ime ✍️ To be continue....❣️❣️💦💦💦 #goviral #storytime #love #story #storyteller #africanfolktales #fblifestyle #episode #StoryTellingChallenge #storytelling
Episode 23: The Results – The Day the Truth Finally Spoke
Peace was six months old when the envelope arrived.
I had driven to Lagos myself to collect the results from the private lab—no mailing, no risk of anyone else seeing. The doctor handed it to me personally, his face kind but serious.
“Mr. Bokime, whatever is inside, remember these children are innocent. And you are a good man for seeking truth this way.”
I thanked him, hands trembling slightly, and drove to a quiet hotel nearby. I didn’t open it in the car—I needed space, privacy.
In the room, I sat on the bed, envelope in my lap, and prayed longer than I ever had for a single moment.
“Lord, give me strength for whatever this says. Help me love these children no matter what. Heal my heart. Show me the way forward.”
Then I opened it.
Four separate reports—one for each child.
First: Favor.
Probability of paternity: 99.9998%.
She was mine.
Relief flooded me, mixed with tears. My firstborn—truly mine.
Second: David (one of the twins).
Probability: 0%.
Not mine.
Third: Covenant.
Probability: 0%.
Not mine.
Fourth: Peace.
Probability: 99.9999%.
Mine.
I sat there for hours, reports spread on the bed, crying quietly.
Two mine. Two not.
The twins—those beautiful, energetic boys I had carried on my shoulders, taught to pray, called “Daddy” with their sweet voices—were the fruit of betrayal.
But Peace and Favor were mine. God’s mercy in the storm.
I drove home that evening, reports hidden in my bag.
The house was warm with life—Favor doing homework at the table, the twins playing with blocks, Peace in his bouncer cooing at Imaobong as she prepared dinner.
She looked up when I entered, smiled softly. “Welcome home, Ime. Food is almost ready.”
I nodded, managed a smile for the children, helped with baths and bedtime as usual.
But inside, I was on fire.
After the children slept, I called her to the living room.
“Sit down.”
She sat, sensing the shift in my tone.
I placed the envelope on the table.
“I did DNA tests. For all four children. Privately. The results came today.”
Her face went pale.
“Ime… why? After Peace… after everything…”
“Because I needed truth. Not guesses. Not hope. Truth.”
I opened the envelope, slid the reports toward her.
She picked them up with shaking hands, read one by one.
When she reached the twins, she gasped, covered her mouth.
Tears fell fast.
“Ime… I…”
Then she saw Peace and Favor—mine—and sobbed harder.
“I told you the twins… might not be… but I prayed they were. I hoped…”
I sat across from her, voice calm but firm.
“Peace is mine. Favor is mine. The twins are not. They are his.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
I continued. “You knew. All along, you knew there was a chance—maybe even certainty—and you refused tests every time I asked. You let me raise another man’s children as my own. You let me love them, invest in them, call them my sons—while hiding the truth.”
She fell to her knees. “I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of what people would say. I thought if we never knew for sure, we could keep the family…”
“That wasn’t your choice to make,” I said, voice breaking. “It was mine. I had a right to know who I was raising, who I was giving my name, my life, my heart to.”
We quarreled—not shouting, because the children were sleeping, but deeply.
She insisted the doctor must have made a mistake. “Labs get it wrong sometimes! We can do another test!”
I shook my head. “This was the best lab in the country. Two samples each. Independent confirmation. It’s not a mistake.”
She cried, begged, promised anything—separation from the twins, therapy, whatever I wanted.
But I was done.
“I’ve forgiven you many times,” I said. “I stayed for the children. I tried to rebuild. But this… knowing for certain that you let me live a lie for years… I can’t carry it anymore.”
She wailed quietly. “Don’t leave us. Please. The children need their father.”
“They need truth too,” I replied. “And I need peace.”
That night, I slept in the guest room.
The next days were agony.
I told my parents. My mother collapsed—literally fainted in their living room when I showed her the reports. She was rushed to hospital, but the shock was too much. Her heart couldn’t take it. She passed two days later.
My father wept like a child. “I warned you, my son. We warned you. But God will carry you.”
The family gathered, mourned. Imaobong came to the funeral, dressed in black, holding Peace, the children confused but quiet.
People whispered. Some knew pieces of the story. Some guessed.
After the burial, I sat with my father.
“I’m ending the marriage,” I said.
He nodded, tears in his eyes. “It’s time. You’ve carried enough.”
Imaobong begged one last time when we returned home.
“For the children. Stay. We can live as brother and sister if you want. Just don’t break the home.”
But I couldn’t.
The lesson from that day? Truth, when finally faced, can hurt more than lies—but it also sets you free. Living in deception destroys slowly. Living in truth, even painful truth, allows healing to begin.
The results confirmed what my heart had feared.
Peace and Favor were mine.
The twins were not.
And the woman I married had chosen lies over love, again and again.
I was angry—at her, at myself, at the years lost.
But mostly, I was grieving.
Grieving the marriage that never truly was.
Grieving the family I thought I had.
Grieving the trust that died.
The divorce papers would come soon.
But first, I had to figure out how to be a father to four children—two by blood, two by choice—when the home we built was crumbling.
God, give me strength.
Because the worst was not over.
It was just beginning.
Ime ✍️ To be continue....❣️❣️💦💦💦 #goviral #storytime #love #story #storyteller #africanfolktales #fblifestyle #episode #StoryTellingChallenge #storytelling
