My parents divorced when I was thirteen. According to my dad, the issues could have been resolved if they had sat down and talked, but my mom took an entrenched position and left the marriage.
One morning, my mom told my dad she was going to visit her family for a week and would return. When she left, she took my two older brothers with her, leaving me and my elder sister behind. A week turned into months, and she never came back. Eventually, she sent a delegation to inform my dad that she was done with the marriage and wouldn’t return.
My dad sent a delegation to apologize and ask her to come back, but she refused. She insisted on a divorce, which was finalized a few months later. My mom made it clear that she would keep my two brothers, while my dad would keep me and my elder sister, who was fifteen at the time. That’s my dad’s version of events.
My mom’s version was different. She claimed my dad had gotten another woman pregnant and hid it from her. She found out through rumors and confronted him, but he denied it until he finally admitted the truth. Beyond the infidelity, she said his temper was unbearable. Though he never hit her, he often threatened to, and she couldn’t live with the constant fear. For her, it wasn’t just about the affair—it was his anger and the emotional toll it took on her.
Years later, I asked my dad about the other woman and the child. He told me the baby had died a week after birth and hinted that my mom might have had something to do with it. “She’s a witch,” he said, half-joking. “She killed the baby in spirit.” I didn’t know what to make of it, but it was clear the wounds from their marriage were still raw.
After the divorce, my mom remarried within a year, but my dad stayed single. He struggled to raise me and my sister on his own. He wasn’t used to being the sole caregiver, so he reached out to his sister, who lived in the UK, to take us in. I was fifteen when my aunt came for me, and my sister joined a year later. My mom didn’t know about this—she hadn’t been in contact with us. My dad, however, stayed involved, encouraging us and helping us plan our futures. My aunt, who had no children of her own, became like a second mother to us, giving us the stability and support we needed.
In 2018, my dad visited the UK for the first time to attend my graduation. He looked older and frailer, but his personality hadn’t changed. He was still the same funny, comforting presence I remembered. By then, we hadn’t heard from my mom in years. I didn’t even know where my brothers were. Whenever I asked my dad, he said they seemed to have disappeared. He didn’t have answers either.
After graduation, I returned to Ghana with my dad and decided to look for my mom. I discovered that my dad had known where she was all along but chose not to contact her because she had remarried. He was still hurt that she had left him and moved on with someone else. He didn’t want to see her and feel the pain of losing her all over again.
When I finally found my mom, it was an emotional reunion. At first, she didn’t recognize me. She thought I was a stranger until I told her who I was. “Efe? My daughter Efe?” she exclaimed, hugging me tightly. She asked about my sister and my life, and I told her everything—how we’d been living in the UK, how my sister was studying to become a lawyer, and how my dad had aged.
Her demeanor shifted from joy to reflection as she listened. She told me about her life after the divorce, how she had met her new husband, and how he had helped her raise my brothers. She said my eldest brother was now a teacher in Accra, and the other was a professional footballer.
We exchanged numbers, and I promised to stay in touch. When I returned home, my dad asked how my mom was. I told him she was happy, and he seemed relieved. But when I mentioned that she hadn’t asked about him, he looked away, as if the past still haunted him.
After that visit, my mom started calling me regularly. We talked about everything she had missed over the years. She also reconnected with my sister, sending her money and gifts. I met my eldest brother during one of my trips back to Ghana. He was a grown man now, with a broad chest and a thick beard. I didn’t get to see my footballer brother because he was always in training camp.
But as time went on, my mom’s calls took a darker turn. She began sharing stories about my dad’s past mistakes, painting him as a villain. She claimed he had wanted her to abort me because he wasn’t ready for another child. I confronted my dad about it, and he admitted he had said that but explained it was because they were struggling financially at the time. He insisted he had no ill will toward me.
My mom’s constant criticism of my dad became exhausting. She seemed determined to turn us against him, even as she asked us for money. My sister eventually cut her off completely, refusing to answer her calls or send her anything. I tried to stay neutral, but it was hard. I even asked my dad to apologize to her, hoping it might ease the tension. But he refused, saying he had already apologized years ago and it hadn’t made a difference. He told me to learn from their mistakes and not repeat them in my own marriage.
Now, two years later, my mom still calls to talk about my dad. She warns me that if I’m not careful, my husband will treat me the same way my dad treated her. I’m married now, with a family of my own, and I’m tired of being caught in the middle. I’ve told my mom that if she doesn’t stop, she might lose me too. But she insists that my dad’s influence is to blame for how I’ve turned out.
I don’t know if my mom will ever forgive my dad or let go of the past. He’s moved on and lives in peace, but she’s still fighting a battle that ended long ago. She wants to use us as weapons against him, and I can’t keep playing that role. I’ve started ignoring her calls, hoping she’ll eventually realize that holding onto anger only hurts her. I wish she could find peace, but it’s up to her to make that choice.
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