Love and Secrets

Our parents were so close that when our mother died, we feared our father would barely last a year without her. They were inseparable, the kind of couple people admired and whispered about in awe. They finished each other’s sentences, shared the same room since we were children, wore matching clothes on Sundays, took evening strolls hand in hand and ate from the same plate. You could never pitch one against the other; their union was seamless. Their marriage was a model, one many aspired to have but few could ever replicate.

So, when Mama passed, we were shattered. Papa mourned with a heaviness that seemed unbearable. Neighbours, friends and church members trooped in and out of the house to console him. But in the midst of that gloom, I noticed something strange. Papa’s face lit up when a particular woman came visiting. I had never seen her before, but his whole countenance changed instantly. For those few minutes she was in the room, it was as if everything else faded away and only she existed. That spark in his eyes was impossible to miss.

She never came back after that first and only visit, but I couldn’t completely dismiss what I had noticed. Life carried on. We buried Mama and painfully adjusted to a life without her and a void that could not be filled. She had been the matriarch, the glue that bound us together, the one who always kept things in order. Those early months were hard for all of us. We worried endlessly about Papa: his health, the loneliness, the grief pressing on his shoulders.

And yet, against all our fears, Papa became the brightest and sweetest version of himself. He looked healthier than ever. He was so full of life that he barely needed his blood pressure medication. His voice carried a lightness we hadn’t heard in years. His laughter came easily, and his eyes sparkled. Instead of withering away, Papa bloomed, and for that we were deeply grateful.

Two years later, on his birthday, Papa surprised us with a family video call. His voice carried an unusual excitement. Papa’s video calls usually came with heaviness and big family announcements. I couldn’t shake off the memory of a family meeting years back, when he told us of Mama’s illness. But this time was different. With his usual gentleness but a renewed glow, Papa dropped his news: he wanted to get married!.

It was as if lightning struck. Instantly, the family was divided. Some siblings felt he had not mourned Mama enough, accusing him of dishonouring her memory. Others thought he was moving too fast, blinded by loneliness. Voices rose, tempers flared. But I stayed quiet. Unlike them, I had seen Papa closely, the sparkle in his eyes, the vigour in his steps, the way his spirit radiated life again. He was thriving. I didn’t have it in me to snuff out whatever it was that made him so alive.
My siblings pressed me to find out who this woman was. So out of duty, not curiosity, I asked him. That was when Papa, with a softness in his voice, told me the story.

Her name was Bidemi. His first love. The only woman he had ever truly loved.

This was a rude shock. I almost lost my balance on my chair. I had always thought Mama was the absolute love of his life. Wow! I couldn’t believe what I just heard, and I was desperate to hear the rest of the story.

As a young man, he and Bidemi had been inseparable. Then she left for the UK to further her studies. In her absence, Papa grew close to Mama. Although they moved in the same circles, Mama was fully aware of his relationship with Bidemi. But one night — one drunken night — changed everything. He couldn’t even recall the details, but Mama appeared weeks later, pregnant. Their families called it a blessing in disguise and urged marriage. “A bird in hand,” they said, “is better than one abroad.” And so Papa married Mama.

When Bidemi returned, she discovered that the man who had promised her forever was now married with a child. Their heartbreak was mutual. Yet Papa, bound by duty and honour, chose to stay with Mama. His love belonged to Bidemi, but his life belonged to another.

Papa admitted that those early years were agonising. He had to train himself to live with Mama without letting Bidemi’s name slip. He had to discipline his heart to love differently, to show loyalty and to build a respectable life. Mama knew. Deep down, she always knew Bidemi had his heart. But Papa gave her no reason to doubt his commitment. He was faithful, present, hardworking and over time their marriage grew into the admired union we all knew. What looked perfect from the outside had been forged in fire and sacrifice.

And then, after Mama’s death, fate brought Bidemi back. It wasn’t easy to rebuild trust after decades of silence. She had to be convinced that he was sincere, that this wasn’t some fleeting attempt to fill a void. Life had dealt her tough blows, and she wasn’t ready to risk being hurt again. Losing the love of her life to someone she thought was a friend, then being widowed so unexpectedly, had been more than enough pain.

But Papa wasn’t willing to let love slip away twice. This was his second chance… rare and miraculous. He intended to seize it. “Who in this life gets to love the same person twice?” he asked me.

Before I left, he shared something else, something that lingered with me long after. He told me there had always been a question he wanted to ask Mama before she died, but he never dared. “Sometimes, what you don’t know cannot kill you,” he muttered under his breath.

What could it have been? What question was so important that he couldn’t bring himself to ask, yet it haunted him even after Mama’s death?

That night, lying in bed, I scrolled through old family photos, reminiscing about the times we shared. Then suddenly, one particular photo caught my attention. It was our last Christmas together before Mama died. I paused, staring, and for the very first time, I noticed something I had never seen before. My eldest sibling, the firstborn, didn’t resemble the rest of us. His mannerisms had always been different, his looks distinct. Suddenly, Papa’s unasked question loomed large in my mind.

Could it be that Mama pinned a pregnancy on Papa that wasn’t his? Could that be the truth he quietly suspected but never voiced? A truth or is it a secret he chose to live with all his life?

We may never know. Or maybe one day we will.

The thought has been sitting quietly in my chest. Should I pry or just let the sleeping dog lie? My curiosity might hurt some people. It could rewrite everything we thought we knew about love, sacrifice and family. Maybe like Papa, I should let it sail.

But I will never look at my brother or remember Mama the same way again.