We were a model couple in church. Youth leaders. Everyone admired us.
After two years of marriage and no child, our pastor started “special prayers” with me.
Alone.
In the office. Every Friday.
He said my husband’s “spiritual blockage” was the problem. That I needed “cleansing through intimacy with anointed vessels.”
I was desperate. I agreed. Weeks later, I got pregnant.
My husband danced in church like David.
He gave testimony.
Donated a new keyboard to the church.
The day of the naming ceremony came.
Our pastor came, smiling, proud.
He named the child “David-Oluwasegun,”
meaning “God has finally given us victory.”
But two months later, my husband got suspicious.
He did a secret DNA test. The child wasn’t his.
