Mary's mom couldn't stay long after Mary was born. The house where she'd been hiding during her pregnancy, her husband's sister's place, had become too cold, too harsh. Every single word spoken there felt like a knife's edge. So, she gathered up every bit of strength she had left and carried her tiny baby back to her own parents' home.
For two years, that little girl was always right by her side, like a shadow. Mary would stumble across the dirt floors, giggling as she chased the chickens in the yard, her small, happy laughter echoing through the evenings. Yet, underneath her mother's forced smiles, a deep tiredness lived. She was so young, too young for all of this, and each day seemed to stretch her thinner and thinner, wearing her down.
Sometimes at night, she'd lie there, wide awake in the dark, her mind replaying how everything had completely fallen apart.
She remembered that night she told her husband she was pregnant. For a brief instant, his face had lit up with a spark of joy, but when they found out the baby was a girl, that light in his eyes just vanished forever.
"You couldn't even give me a son," he'd snap once, his words thick and drunken from too much palm wine. "What good is a daughter to me, anyway?"
Those cruel words had dug deep into her heart, leaving a painful wound. Now, as she sat in the quiet darkness, watching Mary sleep peacefully, she whispered bitterly through her tears, "So you really left me because I couldn't give you what you wanted?" Her shoulders shook with quiet, muffled sobs, trying her best not to wake her innocent little girl.
The very next morning, with a heavy heart, she carried Mary back to the father's family compound.
The house had that distinct smell of smoke mixed with palm oil. Men sat in the courtyard, their voices low and serious. Mary, who was just shy of three years old, couldn't possibly understand the heavy, sad feeling hanging in the air around her. The moment her little feet touched the ground, her eyes lit up as she spotted other children playing with sticks and sand. Her face brightened instantly. With an innocent joy that only a child could have, she toddled straight toward them, giggling softly as she picked up a small stone, trying to copy their game.
While Mary was lost in her carefree laughter, her mother stood trembling before the stern face men.
"Please, take her," she pleaded softly, her voice barely a whisper. "She belongs here, with her father's family."
But Mary's father didn't even bother to look at the child. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw set hard.
"I don't want her. She will only add more trouble to my life."
Mary's laughter rang out in the background, pure and completely unaware of the heartbreak unfolding, as her mother's tears silently streamed down her face.
"No," her father barked sharply when she tried to gently push Mary a little closer to him. "She is not staying here."
Some of the other family members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. One or two of them spoke up not truly because they cared deeply, but more to seem reasonable in front of everyone.
"Brother, you really should accept her. After all, she is your own blood," one uncle said with mixed feelings, his eyes dropped to the floor, avoiding eye contact.
"Yes," another aunt chimed in with a sigh, "you really should take her. She is innocent, after all."
But their voices carried no real belief or conviction. They already knew he had firmly made up his mind, and there was no changing it.
When Mary's mother turned to them desperately, her eyes pleading for help, they gently pulled her aside.
"Don't waste your time," one whispered sharply, their voice low. "Your husband has made his decision. If he says no, then it is no, and nothing will change that."
Her chest tightened painfully, making it hard to breathe. "So what will happen to my child?" she asked, her voice heavy with emotion.
They exchanged quick glances, all of them avoiding her desperate eyes, before one finally spoke, "We will do something about it. Don't worry… we will find a way."
But even in their comforting tone, she heard the emptiness of their words. They were only empty phrases—just a way to quiet her crying, not a true promise of help.
Days later, both families gathered in a small room, dimly lit by the flickering glow of a kerosene lamp. The air had a faint smell of roasted yam, but the tension in the room was bitter and heavy.
"She cannot stay with us," one voice declared.
"Her mother is too young, she has no money or means to care for her," another person replied.
"And her father will not take her either."
Voices overlapped and argued until someone finally suggested what felt like the only possible solution.
"There is the boarding school… Sister Margaret's school. She can go there. At least she will be fed and looked after."
The room slowly quieted down. One by one, heads nodded in agreement, a grim acceptance.
And so, before her third birthday, Mary's future was decided and sealed by people who had never bothered to ask her name, never gently touched her cheek, and never once wondered what it truly meant to be just two years old and already completely unwanted.