She left, But we are surviving - Afolabi Akinfenwa

The disagreement did not begin as something extraordinary. It started with words sharp, careless words spoken without regard for how deeply they could wound. One of them landed with enough force to change the air between us. Voices rose. Respect fell away. The house felt smaller, tighter, as though it could no longer contain what was unfolding inside it. Something broke that day not loudly, but deeply enough to leave unseen scars.

The children had already gone to school.

She left without waiting. She did not wait for the school bus to bring them home. She did not wait at the junction where a mother should stand, scanning the road for familiar faces. I was away on business, believing mistakenly that home was still intact.

When I returned that evening, the house was not merely quiet.

It was wrong.

There were no school bags by the door. No hurried footsteps. No small voices calling, “Daddy.” My heart sank before my mind could make sense of it. Then my children appeared gentle eyed, the neighbor leading by the hand. They were still in their school uniforms, shoes dusty, confusion etched across their faces. They had been waiting. Asking questions. Watching other parents arrive and leave, one by one.

That moment rewired something inside me.

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From that evening forward, hesitation had no place. I became everything they needed to keep moving. I learned their schedules, their fears, their silences. I learned how much a five-year-old can carry without complaint. I learned how fragile a two-year-old’s world becomes when the arms she expects are suddenly gone.

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Not long after, the youngest fell ill. Her body rejected food, her strength faded, and the nights stretched endlessly. I took her to the doctor, held her through pain she could not understand, and followed every instruction with the focus of someone who could not afford to fail. Days passed before she ate again. I watched her breathe. I watched her heal. Slowly, she adjusted to a new normal one she never asked for, but one she is learning to survive.

Now, my days begin before sunrise and end long after sleep has claimed them. I tie shoes, warm meals, soothe cries, and answer difficult questions with honesty softened by care. I carry both roles father and mother not because I planned to, but because my children were left behind, and someone had to stand firm.

This is not a story of bitterness.

It is a story of accountability.

She walked away from what she did not appreciate, leaving behind responsibilities she chose not to face. I stayed. I will always stay. Because love is not proven in comfort it is proven when everything falls apart and you refuse to abandon what matters most.

She left, But we are surviving.

Afolabi Akinfenwa, Publisher of South-West NGR News and South-West frontier writes from Kwara.