My wife and I, we had beautiful dreams when our love was new.  We dreamt of building a business where she was the boss and I was the assistant. In our dreams, we had a beautiful house full of kids who brought joy to our hearts. The only disagreement we had was on the “Full of kids” aspect of your dream. How many kids made a house full? She said six and I said two. She even went ahead and split the gender of our future kids; “Three boys, three girls.” She would say with this dreamy smile on her lips.

We had our first kid when our marriage was barely a year and a half old. A boy. We called him Hector. She called him “Buba” because he was a bubbly kid. Two years after Buba, Amanda came. Amanda gave her a lot of tough times during pregnancy and during delivery. It was very tough for her and at some point, she nearly lost her life. So we decided our definition for “a house full of kids” is a house that has Ama and Buba in it. We called the curtains on childbirth and to avoid having an accident baby, I had a vasectomy.

A beautiful wife. Two adorable kids. A place we can call home. Life was good for us. What was left was for us to start building our own business. She couldn’t wait to be the boss and I couldn’t wait to push her to the top.

I had traveled to see my parents on easter day when I had a call from a strange voice, “Sir, your wife had been admitted at the intensive care unit of so-so-and-so hospital. Currently, she’s responding to treatment but we’ll need you here to sign some papers for us.” I asked who he was and what was wrong with my wife. “I spoke to her just last night and she was in great spirit.”

I returned home in the evening, went to the hospital and saw my wife in a hospital bed with a mask over her nose. Her condition looked critical. The doctor told me, “Your wife attempted abortion with a dangerous drug. She was brought in here quite late. The drug had really caused her some damages but we are trying our best.”

I asked the doctor, “You said she attempted what, suicide?” He repeated, “She attempted abortion and it didn’t go well.”

“My wife? Abortion?

I was going through a cocktail of emotions. Should I be worried about her? Should I be angry? I didn’t know how to feel but clearly I couldn’t wait for her to get better so she could tell me in her own words what she did to get pregnant. The next morning, I got the worse news of my life; “Your wife couldn’t make it.”

When I was a boy, my grandpa told me a story of a man who died just when he was about to tell his kids where he hid the family treasure. The story traumatized me. All through the day, I was thinking, “How could the man do that? Why didn’t he try to say it earlier and waited till his dying moment?” I felt sorry for the kids. All their lives, they wouldn’t know where the treasure was. They would starve and die though they had huge money sitting idle somewhere.

When I heard the news of my wife’s demise, I cried like a baby. Just some moments ago, I saw her as the pillar of my life. The beauty of my dreams. Now, she’s dead just when she had something to tell me—an explanation to do. I knew my wife. She could have had a reason or maybe the doctor was wrong. Even if it was true, we would have fought about it. Get angry and threaten to end each other’s life but in the end, we’ll hold hands again as a husband and wife. Because what we had and what we had built over the years was stronger than single infidelity.

I didn’t get to hear a reason. Worse of it all, her family blamed me for her death. They said, “A man like you can’t take care of a third kid so you drove your wife to her death?” I told them, “You don’t understand and nothing I say would make you believe me.”

Some weeks later, the family laid her in state for friends and family to pay their last respect. As a husband, I should have been the first to see her when she was laid in state but I couldn’t go in there. I didn’t want to face her. I was scared of what might have come out of my mouth so I declined to see her copse. The last image I have of my wife was that afternoon when her body was being lowered into her grave. I told her, “So you’re going without telling me anything? Who made you pregnant? Why didn’t say anything to me?”

I felt the flow of tears on my cheeks. Tears are warm but mine was cold. It felt like it was flowing from a special place in my spirit. It wasn’t normal tears. We said our goodbyes. I left my ring on her coffin and left the cemetery.

I was haunted. I thought about her every day. Amanda had a striking resemblance to her mom. I couldn’t look at my own daughter because I was scared. One morning a thought flashed my mind. “How long did she cheat with the guy who got her pregnant? Could it be that same guy is the real father of my kids?”

I decided to do a DNA test. Some days I was so ready to go ahead and do it but again I was scared. “If the results come and indeed these kids are not mine, I would kill myself.” I didn’t want to kill myself. I didn’t want to know. But the thought never left me. It kept haunting me until one day I decided to do it.

Amanda was mine. Buba wasn’t.

Jesus Christ!

“Buba was our first how come?”

They say alcohol wipes the hurt away. No matter what I drunk, the hurt persisted. Nothing could put me to sleep. I was dead and alive. I was depressed. Everything about me showed I was just but a facade of who I used to be. They said I was taking the death of my wife too hard. They didn’t know what else was eating away my being.

So one night, when the kids were asleep, I hang a rope up there and thought of how easier it would be to end the pain once and for all. Well, you know I didn’t do it because if I did, you wouldn’t be reading this story.

I lied on the bare floor with my face up looking at the dangling rope. That night I fell asleep. It was the deepest sleep I ever had since the death of my wife. When I woke up, I felt this strange feeling. It was as though a piece of my burden had been lifted off. I needed a good night’s sleep and not the forever kind of sleep.

I went to work that morning and walked straight to my boss’ office. She’s a woman I’d always trusted. I poured my heart out to her. I told her everything. I cried. I cried some more. Then she said, “Cry but not louder else your colleagues would hear you.” I cried again. And again. And again.

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She said, “Your wife did you so much wrong. It’s hard especially because you didn’t get the opportunity to have closure but hey, she’s dead and gone. She’s sorry. She would have apologized if she was alive. You might have forgiven her if she did. The apology didn’t come but please accept it. Forgive her and be thankful for the beautiful kids she gave you. Buba is yours. He calls you father. Forget about what the DNA said. What you believe to be true would be the truth. Buba is yours and that’s the truth.”

My boss became my healing. She checked up on me every day to ensure I was doing great. “Don’t tell anyone again about this. It might spread and you’ll have to bear the shame. Keep your story to yourself and live the rest as they come.” She said. Life wasn’t easy, especially the thought of seeing Buba every day and thinking he wasn’t mine.

But so far so good. I realized that the only way to bring revival and warmth into my own life was to forgive and move on. It hadn’t been easy. Memories of what happened hadn’t left me. I live with them everyday but being conscious that they are just memories. They can’t control my life if I don’t allow them. Buba is mine. Amanda is mine. Period.

—Buba’s Father, Ghana

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