I Am The Secret My Mom Kept From My Dad Until Their Dying Days

I was ten or thereabouts when my mom took me to a man’s house and asked me to wait outside. I saw some children playing football. When I waited for what looked like an eternity and my mom wasn’t coming, I joined those playing football and even made a friend. My mom came out with the man. The man touched my cheeks and gave me money.

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It was one of many times my mom took me to that house. Sometimes I waited in the hall. Other times, they would send me on a long errand. I loved to be there because each time we went there, that man gave me money or something sweet.

I’m the first of four children, but my mom loved me far and beyond all others. It was expected that the last born would receive all the love and adoration, but in my situation, I did. My dad couldn’t punish me. My mom covered my sins so my dad wouldn’t be mad at me. What drew angst from my other siblings drew love from my mom.

Even my dad came to the conclusion that my mom protected me against all odds, so he was very vigilant with me and punished my wrongdoings himself.

Years later, when I was in JHS one or so, that man died. I wasn’t told, but I saw his posters on walls and in homes. I came to tell my mom what I’d seen and she chuckled and walked away. Later, I saw her eyes were red. I was young, but I understood what that meant.

We grew up, all four of us. My dad did his best to give us the best of education according to how well we did in school. The least educated among us completed teacher training college.

Dad died and was buried according to our strength. We honored him because he gave his all to us. Before my mom died three years ago, she was always asking me to come home. “Visit me ooo. One day I will die and you wouldn’t know what’s on my heart for you.”

I took it as emotional blackmail just to get me to go home. When I was with her too, she didn’t say a lot. Before she died she asked me, “Do you remember that man whose posters you saw on the wall when you were young?”

I had forgotten so many things, but I could remember that image; his posters on the wall. I asked, “What about him?” She answered, “I thought you’d forgotten. I’m only asking.” She talked about all the people who died during the period, including my grandparents, and she was affected. Even when I asked specific questions, she brushed them aside and told her story of dead people.

When she died, I thought of that moment for a very long time and asked myself, “Was she trying to say something but wasn’t bold enough to say it?”

I decided to do a DNA test using samples from my youngest sibling. Our ‘siblingship index’ didn’t match. We are half-siblings. My dad wasn’t actually my dad.

My feelings towards my mom’s memory haven’t been the same since. I don’t think I love her the way I thought I did. Apart from lying to my dad, she took away an opportunity for me to know who my real dad was. Now I don’t even know how to trace him and find out if he had other children.

Because of my mom, I’ve lost my way home to my dad’s side. Not only that, she left huge trust issues in my heart and mind. I can remember how my dad loved her and did all he could to cater for us. I can also remember how my mom played the part of a perfect wife, standing by the side of my dad until his dying days. What made her cheat on him, even to the extent of continuing the affair while the product of their affair was that old?

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It only tells me that nothing is assured when it comes to love. Everyone is hiding something in love. I have two children. I did a test on them secretly. They are mine. Even with this knowledge, I still look at my wife with one eye wide open. I don’t think I will ever be the same again until my dying days. No one knows this secret, not even my siblings. We move, living life as if nothing is wrong.

—Oman

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