I had a boyfriend I loved deeply. He’s the one I loved fully, honestly and without fear. We had plans, dreams, quiet jokes only the two of us understood. Then life happened in the most cruel way possible. He passed away unexpectedly. No warning. No closure. Just absence. One moment he was there, the next moment he was gone, and my world collapsed in on itself. That season broke me.

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For a whole year, I cried almost every day. I cried in the morning when I woke up and realized again that he wasn’t there. I cried in the afternoon when memories ambushed me. I cried at night when the silence became too loud. I was angry at God for taking him. I was angry at him for leaving me behind. I was angry at myself for surviving when he didn’t. Grief became my daily companion, sitting beside me wherever I went.

People around me kept saying the same thing: “Move on. There’s nothing you can do. Life must go on.” I hated hearing it, but eventually, exhaustion forced me to try. I didn’t move on because I was healed; I moved on because I was tired of drowning. Even now, years later, there are nights when I still cry quietly, when the pain resurfaces like it never left.

It was in that fragile state that I started dating again.

I met a guy I had attended the same university with. He felt familiar and safe in a different way. At first, everything seemed okay. He was present. He listened to my every word so I started to believe that maybe God was giving me something to hold onto after taking so much away from me. I thought I had found someone who could replace what I had lost, or at least help me rebuild.

From our very first month of dating, he asked me to give him a child. It surprised me, even scared me. I tried to ignore it at first, telling myself it was just talk. I focused on finishing school instead. He didn’t stop asking for a child until one year after graduation, I finally gave in and decided to give him a child. I thought having a child would strengthen our bond and give our relationship direction and meaning.

That decision changed my life forever.

Before I even told him I was pregnant, he kept asking me, “How is my baby?” He said it often, with excitement. But once the pregnancy was confirmed, everything changed. Throughout the entire pregnancy, he never asked me about the baby again, not once. Not how the baby was doing. Not how I was feeling. Nothing. I carried that pregnancy alone.

I went for antenatal clinics by myself. I bought baby clothes on my own. I managed cravings, sickness, fear, and emotional exhaustion without him. He always had excuses. There was always something else more important. At some point, he suggested that we save money together for postnatal care, and I agreed. But the savings account was under his control. I tried to send money into it, but when I realized he wasn’t even interested in attending antenatal visits with me, I asked him to contribute more to the savings.

One month to delivery, I asked for the money. He kept giving excuses. One excuse turned into another, and another. I thought maybe he would at least come and be with me when it was time, but he said he didn’t have money. The painful irony was that I also didn’t have much saved because I believed we were saving together.

Instead of showing up, he told me to go back to my parents’ house. He said he would come for me and the baby when he had money to take care of us.

I went.

I delivered my baby with the little I had and the support by my parents and a few friends. He didn’t send a single penny during delivery. Not one. No call. No presence. No responsibility. I became a mother in the most lonely way possible.

Two months after delivery, he tried to send something small. A week later, his tone changed. He started pressuring me to pack and move to his house. He said if I didn’t come, it meant I didn’t want to get married again. This was the same man who didn’t show up for delivery. The same man who vanished when responsibility arrived.

Our baby is now one year and three months old. This man has not spent up to GHC1,000 on his child. Not even close. And yet, he once spoke so passionately about being a father. I don’t even want to marry him anymore, but I believed, at the very least, that he would take care of his child.

We earn the same salary. Before, he complained he wasn’t being paid. Last year, he got a new job. I hoped things would change. Instead, it got worse. Now he says the salary isn’t enough to share with us. He has insulted me several times because I refused to leave my parents’ house until he came to pick us properly or at least sent his family to come meet mine.

Now, we barely talk.

I sit with this reality every day: I loved a man who talked beautifully about fatherhood but disappeared when it mattered. I survived grief once before, and now I am surviving abandonment of a different kind. The weight of raising a child alone while managing heartbreak, disappointment, and betrayal is heavier than words can fully explain.

Thriving In A Relationship When The Man Doesn’t Have Money

So I’m asking, especially from other single mothers, would name your child after a man like this? Would you accept someone like this back into your life or into your child’s life? Is biological connection enough when responsibility is absent?

I didn’t plan to raise a child alone. I didn’t plan to love someone who would abandon me at my most vulnerable. But here I am, still standing, still providing, still choosing my child every single day. And maybe that is the only strength that matters now.

—Regina

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