A few days ago, social media was filled with conversations about deadbeat mothers — how their existence is often overlooked in favour of deadbeat dads. It made me wonder what it really means to have a mother who chooses not to be in your life. That’s how I found *Bolarinwa.
In this story, the 31-year-old mother of one shares what it was like being raised without her mum, how she discovered the truth about her mother’s absence, and the heartbreaking rejection that followed when she tried to reconnect.
As told to Adeyinka
I grew up knowing I had a mother but never really had one.
My earliest memories of her are hazy, fleeting moments of warmth that disappeared as quickly as they came. A hug here, a soft smile there. But the memories don’t last long enough to form anything concrete. I can’t recall the sound of her voice, how she smelled, or even what it felt like to have her around for more than a few hours.
Instead, I had my grandmother. She was the one who raised me, who made sure I had food to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over my head. She was the one who came to school for visiting days, who held my hand when I was sick, who braided my hair in front of the house on warm Sunday evenings. I lacked nothing; at least, that’s what she told me.
But I knew better. No matter how much love my grandmother gave me, there was always a missing piece. The absence of a mother isn’t something you can just ignore, even when you’re told that everything is fine because it’s not fine. Not when you see other children run to their mothers after school or hear your classmates complain about their mums being “too strict” or “too protective”— things you would give anything to experience for yourself.
And then there were the questions. I remember being in primary school when a classmate asked why my mum was “so old.” It caught me off guard, and I didn’t even know what to say for a few seconds. My grandmother had picked me up that day like she always did, and while I had never been ashamed of her, I suddenly felt self-conscious. I mumbled something about her being my grandma, and the conversation moved on, but it stuck with me.
Another time, during a class project about our families, we were asked to bring a photo of our parents. I had no recent picture of my mother, and bringing a photo of my grandmother felt too complicated to explain. So, I “forgot” to submit anything and spent the entire day dodging questions about why I didn’t have a picture.
I learned early on that people expected certain things regarding family, and my reality didn’t fit. So, I avoided the topic when I could, giving vague answers when people asked. But inside, I wished I had a simpler story to tell.
When I was younger, I asked where she was. I don’t remember my grandmother’s exact words, but I remember the sentiment: She’s not here, but she loves you. That answer was enough for a while. I built stories in my head. Maybe she was far away, working hard to make life better for us. Maybe she was sick and needed to get better before she could return. Maybe she was waiting for the right moment.
Then, one day, when I was around 11, I heard one of my uncles say something that shattered all my hopeful theories: She was in a mental institution.
I didn’t understand the full weight of those words then, but they stuck with me. And as I grew older, they started shaping how I saw her absence. She was sick, and that meant she had no choice. Maybe she wanted to be with me but couldn’t. Maybe she was fighting to get better, and she would come back one day.
I held onto that belief for years.
By the time I got to secondary school, my mother had become more of an idea than a real person. She was a name, a shadow in my life, someone I could talk about but not truly know. When my classmates spoke about their mothers, I stayed silent. When they asked about mine, I said she was away. That was easier than explaining what I didn’t even understand myself.
It wasn’t until I got to university that I started to question things more.
I had grown up hearing whispers and little comments from relatives that didn’t add up. And I wondered why no one ever took me to see her. If she was in a mental institution, why did it feel like she had vanished entirely? It didn’t make sense.
So I asked. This time, I didn’t just ask to satisfy my curiosity. I demanded the truth. I told my grandmother I wouldn’t stop asking until someone took me to her. And that’s when I learned the real story. My mother wasn’t sick. She had never been in a hospital. She was in a church.
The revelation made no sense to me. What did they mean she was in a church? For years, I had been told she was unwell. I had spent my childhood feeling sorry for a woman who wasn’t fighting for her life but had chosen a different one that didn’t include me.
I insisted on seeing her. My grandmother hesitated, but after years of hiding the truth, she had no choice but to tell me where to find her. The church was on the outskirts of town, a large compound with high walls and a strict entrance policy. I had to wait outside for hours before someone agreed to call her.
When she finally came out, she barely looked at me.
I had imagined this moment so many times, how she would see me and burst into tears, how she would hold me and apologise for everything, how she would tell me she loved me and had missed me every single day. But none of that happened.
She stood in front of me, eyes empty, mouth set in a firm line. She looked at me like I was a stranger. And when I tried to speak, she cut me off.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
I didn’t understand. I had waited my whole life for this moment. I thought seeing me would change something in her. But she didn’t even flinch.
Still, I refused to give up. I went back again and again. Each time, she was colder than before, barely acknowledging me, treating me like a stranger who had wandered into her life uninvited. But there was one visit that almost felt different.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had waited outside the church for hours before she finally agreed to speak with me. For the first time, she didn’t immediately dismiss me or walk away. My heart raced with hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe she was finally ready to be my mother.
Then she said, “If you’re serious about wanting a relationship with me, you need to leave Islam and join the church.” I thought she was joking. I waited for a smile, some sign that she didn’t mean it. But she was serious. In her mind, the only way I could matter to her was if I erased the life I had always known.
I felt like a fool. Even after all the rejections, some part of me still believed she just needed time. That if I showed up enough and proved myself enough, she would remember I was her daughter.
The last time I saw her, I finally asked the questions that had haunted me my entire life. “Why did you abandon me? Why do you refuse to acknowledge me?”
Her response was simple and final. “I don’t owe you anything.” That was when I knew. My mother had made her choice a long time ago. And I was never a part of it.
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I don’t remember how I got home that day. I don’t remember if I cried or just sat in silence, trying to process the weight of those words, but I remember feeling empty.
Years passed, and I tried to move on. I convinced myself that I didn’t need her. That I had grown up fine without her, and I would be fine in the future, too. But when I got married five years ago, the wound reopened.
Despite everything, I wanted her there. I told myself that this time, she would show up. That no matter what had happened in the past, she would at least want to be there for this. I sent word through the church, through relatives. And her response was the same as before: she didn’t care to be there. So I walked down the aisle with my grandmother by my side, the only mother I had ever known.
Now, I have a daughter of my own. And every day, I look at her and wonder how my mother ever left me. I don’t understand how you carry a child, birth them, and then pretend they don’t exist. Motherhood has been the most terrifying, beautiful, overwhelming experience of my life. I can’t imagine choosing anything over my child.
Sometimes, I wonder if she ever thinks about me. If she regrets anything. If she ever wonders what kind of woman I became. But I can’t waste my life thinking about someone who never thought about me.
All I can do is be the mother I never had. My daughter will never have to question if she is loved. She will never feel my absence the way I felt my mother’s. I grew up without a mother, and I survived. But my daughter? She will never know what that feels like. She will always have me.
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