Echoes Of A Stolen Life

For twenty long years, I lived in the shadow of a grief that refused to soften. I lost the love of my life—not to fate or illness, but to the cold, calculated hands of injustice. His absence was not natural; it was stolen. And with it, a part of me was taken too.

The world kept turning, but mine stood still. Twenty years of silence. Twenty years of unanswered questions and doors that never opened. I knocked until my knuckles bled on the walls of truth, praying someone—anyone—would listen. But injustice has a way of making you feel invisible, as though your pain is too inconvenient to acknowledge.

There were days I nearly gave up. Nights when I screamed into the void, asking God why He would allow so much darkness, so much suffering. I watched as those who caused the pain walked freely, while I carried the weight of loss and betrayal, year after year. But even in the silence, I believed. I held onto His promises like a thread—fragile, but unbreakable.

And then, in a way only He could orchestrate, God moved.

Not loudly. Not with vengeance or spectacle. But with truth—clear and undeniable. The same truth I had carried in my bones for two decades. He brought it into the light. One by one, the lies unraveled. One by one, the scales of justice began to tip.

Retribution came—not to satisfy my anger, but to restore what was taken: dignity, truth, peace. God did not forget. He never looked away. He was there the whole time—through every tear-stained prayer, every weary sunrise, every silent ache.

Now, I look back not with bitterness, but with awe. Because I have seen what it means to endure, and I have seen what it means for God to fulfill His word. He is faithful. He is just. And He always, always keeps His promises. 🙏✨👼

A pocketful of sunshine and