When Your First Wound Comes From the Person Who Made You

There are certain kinds of pain you grow up with before you even understand what they mean.

Abandonment was the first language I learned, long before I knew how to name it. My father left when I was five. People whispered that he probably had another family somewhere else, but he was still my dad, so I could never tell what was true and what was just gossip. All I knew was that he was gone, and my mother was suddenly raising four children on her own. Growing up, we didn’t have much. Most days, the only thing we could afford was food. We didn’t even have a fence around our house, and in a place like Africa, that wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was dangerous. Thieves could jump in at any time. My mother used to stand guard at the gate all night, hitting a piece of steel whenever she sensed movement, hoping the noise would scare people away or alert the neighbours. She was a teacher back then, earning almost nothing, but she still tried her best to keep us happy. As I got older, I started to see the cracks she tried to hide behind her smile. I knew there were struggles she never told us about, burdens she carried alone.

A close-up black-and-white image captures the raw emotion of a tear rolling down a person's cheek, highlighting a moment of deep sadness and reflection.

Even with everything she did, I couldn’t help but miss my father. I kept wondering what I had done wrong. Why wasn’t I enough for him to stay? Why did he choose to leave a five‑year‑old girl behind? A few years passed, and things slowly got better for us. My mother moved us into a new place, a proper complex with a friendly landlord. My siblings and I were so excited. And somehow, even with her small salary, she managed to put us in one of the most expensive schools in the neighbourhood. Hundreds of thousands. She wanted us to feel comfortable, to blend in, to have a chance at a life she never had. Then, out of nowhere, my father came back. Years later. Trying to fit himself into our lives again. My little brother didn’t even recognize him; he called him “uncle” for days. And I, being the naive child I was, wasn’t even angry. I was happy. He brought expensive gifts, acted as if he cared, and for a moment, I let myself believe he was staying. I even blamed my mother for being upset with him. But he didn’t last a year. He left again, just as easily as he came. And that second goodbye broke something in me that I didn’t know how to fix.

After that, I became scared of everything. Scared of people leaving. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared that if I wasn’t perfect, everyone around me would walk away too. That fear followed me everywhere into friendships, into school, into the way I saw myself. It’s strange how one person’s absence can shape your whole personality.

Fast forward a few years, and we finally got the chance to leave the country. We moved to Canada, and life slowly started to feel different. I got into university, found a job, and tried to help my mother with whatever I could. It wasn’t much, I couldn’t afford big things, but at least I could do the groceries. At least I could take a little weight off her shoulders. Then I heard my father was somewhere in the country too, coming and going as he pleased, drifting through life the same way he drifted through ours. But I’m not that five‑year‑old girl anymore. I understand healing now. I understand that my mother did everything she could. I understand that my siblings and I built a life without him, and we’re okay. We moved on. We grew up. We survived.

Still, whenever I check in with myself, whenever I sit quietly with my thoughts, I can feel it, that small, sharp ache. That leftover rage. That wound that never fully closed. The pain of being abandoned doesn’t disappear just because you grow older. It just settles deeper, becoming part of the person you learn to be. And all I can do now is breathe through it.

All I can do is keep choosing the people who choose me.

All I can do is forgive myself for the things I once blamed myself for.

All I can do is keep healing, even on the days it feels slow.

All I can do is remind myself that his leaving was never my fault.

And maybe one day, I’ll look back and realize that the girl he walked away from grew into someone he never deserved in the first place.

Have Your Own Story?

Your words matter. Share your story anonymously and connect with others who understand what it's like to carry heavy emotions.

SHARE YOUR STORY