Some years ago, I met a beautiful woman whose smile lit up something deep inside me, and without wasting time, I asked her to be my girlfriend. I wasn’t interested in playing games or dragging my feet, so within months I proposed marriage and introduced myself to her family.

Things were good, and life felt like it was finally aligning, but everything changed when I ran into serious debt.

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The school I was running collapsed, and then came the arrest. I was jailed for six long months before I was granted bail, and at the time, my girlfriend was two months pregnant. I was on the verge of becoming a father, yet I was locked away in a place where hope felt like a distant echo. I didn’t know how she would survive the pregnancy alone, and I didn’t know how I would survive the shame and isolation.

When I got out, I tried to pick up the pieces of my life. I sold what little I had left, and I worked through crooks and corners, hustling to rebuild a life that had been shattered. It was progressive, and I was making small steps forward, but it was painfully hard. Life after confinement is not the same, and you walk differently, speak differently, and carry a weight that others cannot see.

She gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, and I saw it as a sign from God that as long as there is life, there is hope. I carried on, determined to be a better man and a better father. I wanted to marry her quickly and seal the bond with the woman who had stood by me, but her family began dragging their feet.

“Let the baby grow a little,” “Wait till he starts crawling.” The excuses kept coming, and they started to wear me down.

For two years, I didn’t even get to name my own child, and it took pleading and begging before I was allowed to give him my surname. Even then, the relationship with my mother-in-law had already crumbled. It went from a perfect ten to absolute zero, and she no longer respected me—not as the father of her grandson and not as the man who once catered for her before my downfall.

She said things that were meant to break me, and she made plans to keep me away from my son. Despite naming him after her, it felt like my presence was a crime. Maybe, just maybe, if I were a mother, I would understand her fear, and maybe I wouldn’t want someone who had done jail time to marry my daughter either, but it is hard to be judged solely by your lowest moment.

My family has witnessed all of this, and they have watched me love this woman and her family with everything I have. Slowly, they have withdrawn, and it feels like they are sitting on the wall, unsure whether to support me or stay silent.

I heard that a prophet once came to their church and asked why she was married, because in the spirit, he saw she already was. Her mother responded that the man was delaying the process, but in reality, I had already gone above and beyond.

So now I ask myself if I am doing enough or if I am doing too little. Is she unsatisfied with the lengths I have gone to for her daughter? I have cared for my son regardless of the rejection, and I have loved her through the silence, but I can no longer afford the desire to marry her. The past few years have drained me emotionally, financially, and spiritually.

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And so I ask: would it be wise to move on from this relationship without pursuing marriage, even though I still care for my son and his mother? Would that make me a bad person, or is it the right step for my peace of mind and safety?

I don’t have all the answers, but I know this much: love should not feel like punishment, and sometimes walking away is the bravest thing a person can do.

—Kwesi

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