“They Told Me I Was Their Maid — But When Their Mother Was Dying, She Whispered: ‘You’re the Only True Blood in This House.’”

PART ONE — THE GIRL WHO NEVER ATE AT THE TABLE

I grew up in the Olamide household.

They said I was brought from the village at age 3.

No records. No birthday photos. No visitors for me.

I mopped floors before sunrise and washed dishes after midnight.

They sent their three children to private schools.

Me? I learned by watching TV and stealing old textbooks from the dustbin.

When I once sat at the table, Madam slapped me.

> “Did you forget you're the help?”

I never forgot again.

PART TWO — THE STRANGE WOMAN IN THE GARDEN

When I turned 15, Grandma Olamide moved into the boys' quarters due to her stroke.

Everyone avoided her.

But I helped clean her room. Washed her clothes. Fed her.

She couldn't speak clearly — only her eyes worked.

One night, while I was braiding her hair, she touched my face and started crying.

She whispered:

> “You… are the only true blood here.”

I froze.

> “What do you mean, Mama?”

But she had already closed her eyes.

PART THREE — THE LETTER BEHIND THE PORTRAIT

After Mama died, they asked me to clean out her room.

Behind her old painting, I found a letter.

It was from her to her son — Chief Olamide.

> “You may lie to the world, but God sees. She is your first daughter. The one you had before your marriage. If you hide her forever, you’ll lose everything.”

Tears fell down my cheeks like acid.

I was never a maid.

I was the firstborn.

PART FOUR — THE HEIR WITH NO NAME

I took photos of the letter.

Went back to cleaning toilets.

But something inside me shifted.

I applied for WAEC as an external student.

Scored 9 distinctions.

Won a scholarship.

Packed my bags quietly at night.

Left the house with ₦1,200 and fire in my chest.

PART FIVE — THE YEARS THEY DIDN’T SEE ME
I worked in a printing press.

To be continued in comments section: