I’ve been in a long-distance relationship with Akwetey for the past three months. He was everything I wanted in a man when we first started dating. Conversations were great. His presence was intoxicating. I always came undone at his touch.

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He liked to know everything going on in my life. That’s the thing about long-distance relationships—he’s not close enough to see me for himself, so I had to be his eyes and ears.

“Today I’m wearing something red to work. I look so good in it. Let me send you a photo,” I would tell him.

If I went out, he would ask, “Where are you? What are you even doing there? Let me see some pictures and videos.”

I would gladly give him updates and send him videos. It was all sweet and romantic—having a man who cared so much that he was interested in every little detail about my life. At least, that’s how it all felt to me at first.

Then it all became too much. I could no longer breathe without sniffing in his essence. If he called and I didn’t pick up immediately, he would call again. He wouldn’t stop calling until I picked up. He didn’t mind calling me fifty times in a row. The moment I said, “Hello,” his deep voice would demand, “Where have you been? Why did it take you this long to answer my calls?”

I used to smile and laugh off this attitude. “Oh, isn’t he sweet? He needs to hear from me at all times for his heart to feel calm.”

Boy, was I wrong. Soon enough, I found myself explaining every move I made to him, constantly defending myself against accusations.

“Where are you going? You’re going to see another man, aren’t you?”

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone earlier? Were you with another man?”

This is how this thirty-seven-year-old man made me feel—as if I were dating an obsessed teenage boy who was falling in love for the first time.

He said he wanted a wife when we first met. So two months into the relationship, we were already discussing marriage and making plans.

I’m turning 30 soon. At my age, I was excited at the prospect of marriage. Maybe that’s why I kept labelling the red flags as cute and swept them under the carpet. But soon enough, I couldn’t hide from them. They became too glaring. How can I be with a man I constantly have to prove myself to?

I hadn’t done anything to give him reason to doubt me, but this man treated me as if if he didn’t keep me on a tight leash, I would cheat on him. It was suffocating.

I spoke to him several times, asking him to tone down his controlling tendencies, but he refused to change. Every attempt to express my feelings about his attitude turned into a misunderstanding.

I didn’t have it in me to continue down the marriage path with him after everything I had seen. I told him we were not compatible. “We will always be on opposite sides of things, so let’s just save ourselves the trouble of future fights and go our separate ways.”

He said, “That’s fine. I wish you well.”

I also wished him the best.

A month after the breakup, I missed my period.

“Please don’t be positive, please don’t be positive, please don’t be positive,” I muttered in silent prayer as I took a home pregnancy test. If only it were that simple. The test kit showed two red lines. A sure positive.

When I shared the news with him, he asked me, “Do you want to have a baby with a man you dumped?”

We talked, and I suggested that we co-parent. He objected to it. According to him, “I won’t have a baby mama. If you want to have my child, then I have to marry you.”

I knew I couldn’t marry him because the red flags were too serious. When I turned down the marriage idea, he almost yelled, “Then get rid of it so we can both move on in peace.”

I agreed with him, and he sent me money for the procedure. After a few days, I told him I had taken care of it.

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I lied. I made up my mind to keep the baby the moment I saw those red strips. Nothing he said was going to change my mind, but I didn’t want to drag things out with him. That’s why I made him believe that I did it. This way, he can move on and have peace while I stand by my choice.

Now, I’m looking for a man who will accept me and my unborn child. Someone responsible, working, and ready to love and raise the child as his own. I don’t want my child to grow up fatherless.

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Until I meet that person, I’ve decided that if anyone asks who got me pregnant, my answer will be, “The father is dead.”

Now, my question is, since he didn’t want the baby, can he come back in the future to claim rights or ownership of the child?

—Naa

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