This is my confession. I hope you forgive me.
Like almost every man in his early thirties, I was teased for not being married. Everyday, I had to go to work dodging the same question: will I marry you?
My gut was telling me no. I didn't have enough savings to start a family. I couldn't even buy my dream house.
The pressure poured inside me and overwhelmed me. So by June I proposed to you at the park near your office. Your friends screamed and you said yes. I was relieved but I wasn't happy.
Six months later, in a local church, we got married. You're so happy talking to your friends in the reception area while I was at the back garden looking at my little notebook where I wrote all the bills we had to pay.
I thought the pressure was gone.
Then, after a month of receiving congratulations from everyone, they asked when we're having a child. I wasn't scared about the question because we're just a fresh couple. But the month turned to a year, and we're fighting at home because you failed the goddamn pregnancy test for the eight time.
Now, I'm thinking of leaving you. You know I loved you but we can't pretend that there's nothing wrong. You're my personal heaven. But I can't stay and see you become my personal hell.