“Maybe if you could give me a child, we’d be okay,” he said.
Those words hit Nyla harder than any slap.
Then Ivonne struck again—this time with humiliation wrapped in help.
The following Sunday, Ivonne announced she had invited someone special.
When Nyla walked into the living room, she saw a man sitting in the corner wearing a long robe and shiny shoes, holding a bottle of oil like it was a weapon.
Ivonne cleared her throat proudly.
“This is Prophet Lionel Briggs,” she said. “He’s known for breaking curses.”
Prophet Briggs smiled like he already knew Nyla was guilty.
Nyla’s stomach dropped.
Terrence didn’t stop it. He didn’t question it. He just sat down like this was normal.
Ivonne pointed at Nyla. “Tell him what’s wrong,” she demanded.
Nyla’s voice came out small. “I’ve had losses.”
Prophet Briggs stood up slowly and walked around Nyla like she was a problem to be diagnosed in public.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “I see heaviness. I see blockage. I see spiritual chains.”
Nyla’s eyes filled.
Because none of this was private. None of this was love.
Prophet Briggs raised his voice. “This womb needs deliverance. This woman must fast. This woman must confess.”
Ivonne clapped. Kesha nodded dramatically like she was watching a show.
Nyla looked at Terrence again, begging again.
Terrence’s face stayed blank.
Then two nights later, the cramps returned.
Nyla woke up gasping, one hand on her belly, whispering, “No… please… not this.”
She ran to the bathroom, and when she looked down, she knew.
Blood again.
She cried so quietly her sobs sounded like choking.
Terrence banged on the door.
“Hurry up,” he yelled. “You always doing too much.”
When he finally drove her to the hospital, Nyla felt numb.
Not scared this time. Just numb.
The doctor didn’t take long.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve miscarried again.”
That was the third.
The third time her body lost something her heart already loved.
Nyla didn’t scream. She just stared.
Stared like her soul had left first and her body was still sitting there waiting to catch up.
At home, Ivonne didn’t bring soup. She didn’t bring comfort.
She brought blame.
“You see?” Ivonne snapped. “I told you. Your weight is proof. You are the problem.”
Terrence stood by the wall, arms folded, and then he said it—cold and final.
“I’m tired, Nyla. I can’t keep living like this.”
That night, Nyla opened a notebook for the first time in months.
She wrote one sentence at the top of the page:
If I stay, I will die inside.
And for the first time, she didn’t just feel pain.
She felt direction.
A week after the third loss, Nyla stopped waiting for permission to save herself.
She was tired of crying in silence, tired of being blamed, tired of being treated like a failure inside her own marriage.
So one morning, while Terrence was at work and Ivonne was busy running her mouth somewhere else, Nyla put on a simple hoodie, grabbed her purse, and walked out.
Not to church. Not to Ivonne’s house.
To a clinic.
Because Nyla had decided something important.
If everybody was so sure she was the problem, then facts would prove it—or facts would expose a lie.
At the front desk, the receptionist asked, “First time here?”
Nyla nodded.
“Fill this out,” the woman said, sliding papers across the counter.
Nyla’s hands trembled as she wrote her name.
Not because the clinic was scary.
Because truth was scary.
A nurse called her back.
Her name was Nurse Camille Reeves, a calm woman with a gentle voice who didn’t rush Nyla or look at her with judgment.