Mary’s* ( 21) aunty stepped in as a mother figure after she lost her mum in 2010. Now, as an adult, she’s on a mission to learn more about the mum she barely remembers, but her family thinks she should leave the past alone.
She needs your advice. What would you do in her situation?
My biological mum died in 2010. I was six at the time, so most of my memories from before then are a blur. I only remember that she had been sick for a while and that her sister, Aunty Kemi*, moved in with us to take care of my brother and me.
Over time, I grew fond of Aunty Kemi, and I was happy when she offered to stay after my mum died. I barely paid any mind to her interaction with my dad, so it came as a surprise when he announced their wedding in February 2012. He explained that if I wanted her to continue living with us and caring for my brother and me, they had to get married.
I was still young and clueless about many things, so his explanation made sense. I was excited, even. And that feeling of joy only grew deeper when, about a year after their marriage, Aunty Kemi welcomed my first half-brother.
We moved from Lagos to Ekiti shortly afterwards, and my dad made sure Aunty Kemi became “Mummy”. As the years rolled by and she welcomed more children, she never treated me differently. To everyone around us, I was one of hers.
For years, I barely thought about my biological mum. Nobody really talked about her at home. I remember one old, faded photograph of her that used to hang in my room. I didn’t notice when it disappeared. I only found it much later, tucked behind my dad’s bedframe while I was cleaning.
By secondary school, I’d started to realise that our family was a little unusual. I didn’t want to explain it to people, so I never told anyone that Aunty Kemi wasn’t my biological mum. I didn’t even want to think about it either.
That changed last year. In my second year of university, I needed to complete a three-month internship during the holidays, but I couldn’t find a placement in Ekiti. I eventually found one in Lagos and had to stay with my mum’s aunt. My dad wasn’t comfortable with the idea at first, but eventually, I left for Lagos.
For the first time, I was around someone who openly talked about my biological mum. My aunt would point out small similarities between us and tell me stories about my mum’s personality and childhood. At first, it felt strange hearing so much about a woman I barely remembered. But the more I learnt, the more curious I became. The more I started wondering why my dad and Mummy Kemi had never told me these things.
One day, while talking to my aunt about how much I disliked living in Ekiti, she opened a Pandora’s box about why we’d left Lagos.
Apparently, people in our community had started spreading rumours about my dad and Aunty Kemi’s relationship after my mum died. My aunt didn’t approve of the union, either. Then Kemi got pregnant and the gossip grew worse.
People openly treated them differently, and some even refused to hold their baby. Eventually, the hostility forced them to make the move out of Lagos.
I didn’t know what to make of the new information at first. But the more I learnt about my mum, the more guilty I felt about how little I remembered of her. I didn’t even know where she was buried. When I asked my dad once, he told me she was buried in a cemetery in Lagos. And that was the end of that conversation; we never even visited her grave. On her death anniversaries, we only said a short prayer and moved on.
After a while, I started sharing the knowledge I’d gathered with my younger brother. He also deserved to know about our mum. However, my dad didn’t take kindly to my action. He was angry and told me to stop feeding him false information. He also picked a quarrel with my mum’s aunt and made sure I returned home earlier than planned.
But that didn’t stop me from asking questions. His action only made me more determined.
One day, I told Mummy Kemi how I’d learnt that my mum loved reading and keeping diaries. I asked if any of her books were still in the store. She said she didn’t know and changed the subject. Her entire demeanour changed, and it was hard to ignore.
Later that evening, she told my dad about our conversation. Then he confronted me for making her uncomfortable. When I tried to stand my ground, he got angry and accused me of trying to create confusion in the family.
He claimed that my mum’s aunt had poisoned my mind because he’d refused to let her take custody of my brother and me. He believed that disagreement was why she had supported the rumours about his relationship with Aunty Kemi.
Then he told me they’d burnt most of my mum’s belongings, including her books. He said it so casually that I suddenly realised how little space my mum occupied in our family’s life.
My brother doesn’t really see things the way I do. He thinks asking questions about my mum is disrespectful, considering everything our aunty has done for us.
That’s what makes this so difficult. I love and respect my aunty. I can’t pretend she hasn’t been my mother in every way that matters. But she’s also my mum’s sister. I expect her to willingly help me learn about the woman whose place she’s taken. Since I left for school, our relationship hasn’t been the same. I feel uncomfortable about the way she has handled everything, and I already dread going home.
My mum’s memorial is also coming up, and I wish we could do something to remember her. But I’m worried that bringing it up could cause another conflict. To keep the peace, I might just have to suppress these feelings until I’m old enough to leave home.
What would you do if you were in my shoes?
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