They Told Me My Mother Died in Childbirth Then I Met Her Selling Vegetables Downtown
I grew up believing my mother died the day I was born. That story was repeated so often it became a permanent part of my identity. Whenever I asked questions, relatives would lower their voices and say she was “too weak to survive childbirth.” I was raised by my aunt, who constantly reminded me that I should be grateful to be alive.
I mourned a woman I had never met and learned early how to live with unanswered questions.
My childhood was marked by distance and secrecy. Family gatherings felt tense, and I always sensed that certain topics were forbidden around me.
There were no photos of my mother, no stories about her personality, not even a grave I could visit. Whenever I pressed for more, I was told to stop disturbing the dead. Everything changed one ordinary afternoon. I was walking downtown after work when I stopped by a roadside vegetable stall.
As the woman arranging tomatoes looked up, our eyes locked. My heart skipped. She stared at me as if she had seen a ghost. The resemblance was undeniable. Same eyes. Same scar near the eyebrow. Same tilted smile. Before I could speak, she dropped the basket she was holding and whispered my name. I froze.
She knew details no stranger could know. My childhood nickname. The mark on my shoulder. My late father’s name. People gathered as we both stood shaking. That was the moment the lie collapsed. My mother had not died. She had been taken away from me deliberately.
She told me the truth through tears. After giving birth, family elders declared that she was unfit and cursed. They forced her to disappear and told everyone she had died, allowing another woman to raise me. For years, fear kept her silent. She had watched me grow from afar, too afraid to reveal herself.
