She Lost Everything Before Finding The Right Man

I was just seventeen when I had my first child—a girl. At the time, I was in my senior year of high school, and the boy who got me pregnant was in the same school. We thought we understood love well enough, so when he professed his deep love for me one evening, I believed him wholeheartedly. His affection was evident in his eyes, and his hands were always on me, looking at me like a child eyeing candy. That night, I surrendered everything to him.

We were blissfully unaware that every action carries responsibilities, even when love is innocent. Just one encounter was all it took for me to become pregnant. I didn’t know my body well, nor did I understand what being pregnant felt like. I experienced nausea and became sensitive to strong perfumes, often throwing up at the slightest whiff. I remember Sophia looking into my eyes and asking, “Betty, do you know you’re pregnant?” I pursed my lips and stared at her, feeling uneasy.

“How did you know?” I asked.

When my parents discovered my pregnancy, it was hell. My father threatened to disown me, and I was expelled from school. The months leading up to my baby’s birth were a nightmare.

After giving birth, I returned to school to finish my senior year. My name changed the moment I stepped back onto campus; I was no longer Betty, but “Born One.” They never said it to my face, which I appreciated.

I went on to university, determined to complete my education, secure a good job, and create a home for my daughter. That was my plan, and nothing would deter me. However, during my third year, I met Ato. He was a true gentleman, offering me extra help with subjects I struggled with. I often sought his guidance.

Before we knew it, we had fallen in love. He accepted my past and didn’t judge me, which made me feel even more comfortable around him. When the man you love knows your history and still finds you lovable, you feel fortunate. While others called me “Born One,” he was brave enough to claim me. I was excited about our future together.

After graduation, we both found jobs and maintained a strong relationship. But soon, I began experiencing the same feelings I had when I got pregnant at seventeen. Realizing something was off, I took a pregnancy test, and it came back positive. I felt crushed and heartbroken. I had envisioned a beautiful wedding before starting a family, and I dreaded telling him. I knew he would be disappointed, too, but life has its surprises.

That night, he was in a good mood, so I thought it was the right moment to bring up the pregnancy. I said, “We need to talk.”

“What about?” he asked.

“Um, where do we go from here? We’ve been together for over four years. Do you have any plans for us?”

“Of course! Marriage is the next step, but we need to take it slow. We both have to be sure before making any moves.”

“I’m sure about us. Four years is enough time for me to know you’re the one for me.”

“Marriage isn’t just about sweet words; it requires hard work.”

I remained silent as he continued to list reasons for taking things slowly. Finally, I said, “That’s not the issue. I took a pregnancy test this morning, and it was positive. I thought you should know.”

Perhaps I chose the wrong moment or the wrong words, but I’ll never know. His reaction is etched in my memory. He exploded with anger, as if I had intentionally gotten pregnant to trap him. He hurled insults at me.

It only takes one crisis to reveal a person’s true character. I had always known him as someone who didn’t judge, but that day, he dredged up my past to label me as the most foolish woman he had ever met. “How could a woman your age let this happen? I thought someone with your background would have learned their lesson. You’re so immature. Now I see why you had a baby at seventeen—you don’t think like a grown woman.”

I was left speechless, utterly shocked. I wondered if this was really about the pregnancy or if he had been waiting for a chance to express these feelings. I felt shattered. All my confidence, trust, and love evaporated. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I spoke. Tearfully, I asked, “What do you suggest we do?” He snapped, “Abort it!” I replied, “Thank you. I’ll do as you say.”

For weeks, he didn’t reach out. I never understood why men do that—stop communicating when it’s most needed. I used his absence to reflect. “Even at seventeen, I chose not to abort my first child. Why would I do it now? If he doesn’t want this baby, I do. I’ll have the child and ask nothing from him.”

One day, he came by and asked if I had terminated the pregnancy. I told him, “I haven’t. I’m keeping it.” He became angry again, as if that was all he could feel. He insisted I should abort. Later, he said, “If you can’t even do something simple that I asked, how can you believe we could get married?”

He wasn’t my problem; my real challenge was how to tell my parents. I spoke to friends who suggested I should terminate the pregnancy. They said, “It’s hard for a ‘Born One’ to get married, let alone a ‘Born Two.’ If you don’t want to marry in the future, then go ahead.” That frightened me. Eventually, I gathered the courage to tell my parents. The expected drama unfolded, and they hurled every insult imaginable at me. They loved me deeply and expected better.

Four or five months into my pregnancy, I received a message from Ato: “If you insist on having the baby, you can, but don’t think you can use it to trap me into marriage.” I wondered, “Is this the same man I fell in love with? What changed?” That message infuriated me; if he had been in front of me, I might have lost control. I replied, “You think too highly of yourself. Me? Trapping you into marriage? Who said the baby is yours?”

He clung to that question, implying he wasn’t the father.

Life is tough, but we are meant to overcome challenges to enjoy the joy that follows. I didn’t have it easy raising my children alone, but I had no choice but to push through. I gave birth to a boy, Jeff, and the unfortunate part was that he looked just like his father. Every time I gazed at his face, I saw Ato’s. But that didn’t bother me; he was mine.

I became a mother of two beautiful children, both with absent fathers. My focus was on giving them the best life possible and being a mother they could be proud of. I didn’t think about marriage or letting any man disrupt the peaceful life I had built for us. I may not have had everything, but I had peace—perfect peace.

One evening at a party, a man approached me and said hello. I smiled and shook his hand. He remarked, “You seem to be sitting here quietly, not mingling with anyone.” I replied, “You’re right, but I’ll be leaving soon. My kids might be waiting for me.” He sat beside me, and we talked, exchanged numbers, and continued our conversation over the phone.

He was articulate and insightful. “I’m a medical doctor,” he said. I replied, “That explains a lot.” We met again for a date, and I scrutinized him closely. He appeared older than I had initially thought. He asked about my story, and I shared everything, especially my desire to raise my kids to avoid my mistakes. He was impressed and shared his own story.

He was a divorcee with one child. He recounted, “Not long ago, I was a heavy drinker. I could consume all the alcohol in the world and still crave more the next morning.” He had once operated on a patient while intoxicated. Fortunately, nothing went wrong, but the hospital found out and fired him. His wife had wanted to leave him because of his drinking. “We were married for four years, and I was drunk the entire time. I didn’t even know my son’s name or what he looked like because I never saw him sober.”

After losing his job, his wife filed for divorce, which only worsened his drinking. His parents believed it was a curse and sent him to various churches for prayers, but nothing changed. He said, “One day, at a school reunion, I saw my classmates thriving, and I realized I needed to change. It was tough, but I managed. It’s been two years, and I haven’t touched alcohol. I got my job back and found happiness again.”

I asked him, “How old are you?” He replied, “I turned forty two months ago.” I thought to myself, “You look like a sixty-year-old man.”

We continued seeing each other, and I brought him home several times. He connected with my kids as if they were his own. They even called him “Daddy” because he always came bearing gifts. When they struggled with something, they wouldn’t come to me; they’d go to their dad. After school, they’d ask when he was coming home. He was stealing my kids’ affection, but I loved it.

Sometimes, I look at him, his bald head, and feel grateful—grateful to the alcohol that caused him to lose everything, leading him to me.

—Betty  
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