I had just finished secondary school when I met Fred. His older brother had moved into our neighbourhood and Fred came to live with him. He was in his final year at the university yet carried himself with the kind of focus and clarity you’d expect from someone much older.
Fred was what you’d call a purpose-driven person. As a student of Business Management, he already had a deep interest in real estate. His journal could intimidate any seasoned entrepreneur—it was filled with well-thought-out ideas, each one waiting to be brought to life.
From the very beginning, Fred told me I was going to be his wife. I was young but the thought thrilled me. I could already picture myself woven into the dreams and plans of this ambitious young man. I saw potential in him but my mother saw something else entirely. She thought he was too proud, accusing him of speaking too much “big grammar.” She believed his dreams were just empty ambitions that would never materialise.
Her disapproval quickly turned into open hostility. She began making outrageous financial demands on Fred and for a while, he met them without complaint. But the day she asked for an amount he couldn’t give, everything changed. That was when she told him never to set foot in our house again.
Fred didn’t give up on me, though. We continued to meet in secret but it was no longer the same. I was my mother’s first daughter, and we were very close. She had a strong influence over me—something I didn’t recognise then as emotional blackmail. She convinced me that my relationship with Fred would hurt her and damage the bond between us.
My siblings saw things differently. They even called a family meeting urging me to ignore our mother and choose my own happiness. I could see why they never got along with our mother—they were far too stubborn. Always opinionated, always insisting on their own way, never listening to her. It drove her into constant anger. But I was different. I followed whatever she wanted, and her happiness was my happiness.
My siblings went on and on but I still refused. Even my father—quiet, reserved and long subdued by my mother’s domineering ways had called me aside and spoke in Fred’s favour. He told me he approved of our relationship and had a good feeling about him. But I was too afraid to upset my mother so I ended things with Fred.
I will never forget that day. I have never seen a grown man cry the way Fred did. He broke down completely, weeping like a child. He told me he was willing to stay by me no matter how my mother treated him. He believed she would eventually come around. But I couldn’t hold on long enough to see if he was right. Soon after, Fred left his brother’s house and never returned, not even for the holidays.
That was twenty-two years ago.
A few days ago, while scrolling through social media, I kept seeing a particular post pop up in my feed. It was about Fred. I looked closely at the photos—he had aged gracefully. He once said he was going to be a real estate mogul but he had clearly surpassed even his own expectations. He was by every standard, a very successful man.
Before his brother moved away from our neighbourhood years ago, he had mentioned that Fred was getting married and moving into his new home—his second home—in Warri. I remember my late father being present when I heard that news. He looked at me with knowing eyes while I forced a smile to mask the sting of regret.
Time passed. All my siblings got married one after the other and I remained at home with my mother because for reasons she never explained, no man was ever “good enough” for me. And so, I never married and she would not let me go live on my own. Now, the house has become unbearable. I have thought more than once about getting my own place.
And here I am today, staring at photos of Fred and his beautiful wife celebrating their son’s graduation in the UK. I can’t help but think that could have been me standing beside him and that could have been my son but I allowed my mother’s opinion to dictate my life and I have to live with the regret.
The worst sting came recently when my mother walked in on me looking at Fred’s pictures. She had the audacity to say I had missed out on a fine man because of my bad character. It took every ounce of restraint in me not to hit her. But in truth, I can’t blame her as much as I blame myself. I loved my mother too much, I sacrificed my own happiness and that cost me everything. I threw away my one chance at real happiness—at being with the love of my life.
