I FOUND OUT MY REAL MOTHER WAS THE HOUSEMAID
All my life, I called her “Mama Rose” — the house help.
She cleaned our floors, cooked our food, and always looked at me with sad eyes.
I never knew why.
Until one day, she bent to pick up a broken glass…
And I saw the exact same birthmark on her back that I had on mine.
A jagged crescent. Like a tear.
That’s when I started asking questions.
And my entire childhood… fell apart.
I grew up thinking I was the daughter of a wealthy woman named Florence Okonkwo.
My “mother” was elegant, cold, and proud.
She dressed me in lace. Drove me to school. Smiled for photos.
But never once told me she loved me.
Not once.
Then there was Mama Rose.
She wore second-hand clothes.
She called me “My Angel.”
She made jollof rice exactly the way I liked it — slightly burnt, with fried goat meat on top.
And every time I was sick,
she cried like her own soul was breaking.
I was 19.
Mama Florence was in London for a conference.
I was home from university on holiday.
That morning, I dropped a glass of water.
It shattered on the kitchen tiles.
As Mama Rose bent to sweep it up, her blouse shifted…
And I saw it.
That strange C-shaped birthmark.
Exactly like mine.
Same shape. Same position. Same darkness.
I froze.
> “Mama Rose… where did you get that mark?”
She paused.
Her hands trembled.
Then she whispered:
“I prayed you’d never see it.”
That night, I went into Mama Florence’s room.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for.
Maybe an explanation. Maybe proof I was imagining things.
Instead, I found a journal, hidden in a velvet box under her bed.
The first entry was dated February 2003 — the year I was born.
And the very first sentence shattered my identity.
> “The house girl gave birth in the guest room.
I told the nurses to list me as the mother.”
Page after page revealed the truth.
Florence was barren.
Her husband had an affair with the house girl — Rose.
But instead of kicking her out, she made a plan:
> “I’ll raise the child.
She will never know where she came from.
Rose can stay. But she must be invisible.
No hugs. No photos. No motherly attachment.
She is not the mother anymore. I am.”*
I sat across from Mama Rose that evening.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t cry.
Couldn’t even form full sentences.
Just three words: “Is it true?”
She didn’t deny it.
She just walked over to the small wooden box she always kept in her room.
Opened it.
Inside were dozens of photos…
of me as a baby.
Cuddled in her arms.
Kissed on the forehead.
Wrapped in an old blue cloth I still slept with at night.
And then she said:
> “I wasn’t strong enough to fight for you.
But I never stopped being your mother.”
Then she added…
“Your father didn’t die in a car crash.
He’s still alive.
He’s just… in the other house.”
I opened Facebook.
Typed in the name Rose gave me.
And when I found the man’s profile…
My heart dropped.
He had another daughter.
She looked just like me.
And her name…
was also Adaeze.
Follow my pageIhemekwele Daniel Onyedikachi to get notifications whenever I posts..
@highlight
Favour ChizarIhemekwele Daniel OnyedikachiFavour Chizaram Grace
All my life, I called her “Mama Rose” — the house help.
She cleaned our floors, cooked our food, and always looked at me with sad eyes.
I never knew why.
Until one day, she bent to pick up a broken glass…
And I saw the exact same birthmark on her back that I had on mine.
A jagged crescent. Like a tear.
That’s when I started asking questions.
And my entire childhood… fell apart.
I grew up thinking I was the daughter of a wealthy woman named Florence Okonkwo.
My “mother” was elegant, cold, and proud.
She dressed me in lace. Drove me to school. Smiled for photos.
But never once told me she loved me.
Not once.
Then there was Mama Rose.
She wore second-hand clothes.
She called me “My Angel.”
She made jollof rice exactly the way I liked it — slightly burnt, with fried goat meat on top.
And every time I was sick,
she cried like her own soul was breaking.
I was 19.
Mama Florence was in London for a conference.
I was home from university on holiday.
That morning, I dropped a glass of water.
It shattered on the kitchen tiles.
As Mama Rose bent to sweep it up, her blouse shifted…
And I saw it.
That strange C-shaped birthmark.
Exactly like mine.
Same shape. Same position. Same darkness.
I froze.
> “Mama Rose… where did you get that mark?”
She paused.
Her hands trembled.
Then she whispered:
“I prayed you’d never see it.”
That night, I went into Mama Florence’s room.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for.
Maybe an explanation. Maybe proof I was imagining things.
Instead, I found a journal, hidden in a velvet box under her bed.
The first entry was dated February 2003 — the year I was born.
And the very first sentence shattered my identity.
> “The house girl gave birth in the guest room.
I told the nurses to list me as the mother.”
Page after page revealed the truth.
Florence was barren.
Her husband had an affair with the house girl — Rose.
But instead of kicking her out, she made a plan:
> “I’ll raise the child.
She will never know where she came from.
Rose can stay. But she must be invisible.
No hugs. No photos. No motherly attachment.
She is not the mother anymore. I am.”*
I sat across from Mama Rose that evening.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t cry.
Couldn’t even form full sentences.
Just three words: “Is it true?”
She didn’t deny it.
She just walked over to the small wooden box she always kept in her room.
Opened it.
Inside were dozens of photos…
of me as a baby.
Cuddled in her arms.
Kissed on the forehead.
Wrapped in an old blue cloth I still slept with at night.
And then she said:
> “I wasn’t strong enough to fight for you.
But I never stopped being your mother.”
Then she added…
“Your father didn’t die in a car crash.
He’s still alive.
He’s just… in the other house.”
I opened Facebook.
Typed in the name Rose gave me.
And when I found the man’s profile…
My heart dropped.
He had another daughter.
She looked just like me.
And her name…
was also Adaeze.
Follow my pageIhemekwele Daniel Onyedikachi to get notifications whenever I posts..
@highlight
Favour ChizarIhemekwele Daniel OnyedikachiFavour Chizaram Grace
I FOUND OUT MY REAL MOTHER WAS THE HOUSEMAID
All my life, I called her “Mama Rose” — the house help.
She cleaned our floors, cooked our food, and always looked at me with sad eyes.
I never knew why.
Until one day, she bent to pick up a broken glass…
And I saw the exact same birthmark on her back that I had on mine.
A jagged crescent. Like a tear.
That’s when I started asking questions.
And my entire childhood… fell apart.
I grew up thinking I was the daughter of a wealthy woman named Florence Okonkwo.
My “mother” was elegant, cold, and proud.
She dressed me in lace. Drove me to school. Smiled for photos.
But never once told me she loved me.
Not once.
Then there was Mama Rose.
She wore second-hand clothes.
She called me “My Angel.”
She made jollof rice exactly the way I liked it — slightly burnt, with fried goat meat on top.
And every time I was sick,
she cried like her own soul was breaking.
I was 19.
Mama Florence was in London for a conference.
I was home from university on holiday.
That morning, I dropped a glass of water.
It shattered on the kitchen tiles.
As Mama Rose bent to sweep it up, her blouse shifted…
And I saw it.
That strange C-shaped birthmark.
Exactly like mine.
Same shape. Same position. Same darkness.
I froze.
> “Mama Rose… where did you get that mark?”
She paused.
Her hands trembled.
Then she whispered:
“I prayed you’d never see it.”
That night, I went into Mama Florence’s room.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for.
Maybe an explanation. Maybe proof I was imagining things.
Instead, I found a journal, hidden in a velvet box under her bed.
The first entry was dated February 2003 — the year I was born.
And the very first sentence shattered my identity.
> “The house girl gave birth in the guest room.
I told the nurses to list me as the mother.”
Page after page revealed the truth.
Florence was barren.
Her husband had an affair with the house girl — Rose.
But instead of kicking her out, she made a plan:
> “I’ll raise the child.
She will never know where she came from.
Rose can stay. But she must be invisible.
No hugs. No photos. No motherly attachment.
She is not the mother anymore. I am.”*
I sat across from Mama Rose that evening.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t cry.
Couldn’t even form full sentences.
Just three words: “Is it true?”
She didn’t deny it.
She just walked over to the small wooden box she always kept in her room.
Opened it.
Inside were dozens of photos…
of me as a baby.
Cuddled in her arms.
Kissed on the forehead.
Wrapped in an old blue cloth I still slept with at night.
And then she said:
> “I wasn’t strong enough to fight for you.
But I never stopped being your mother.”
Then she added…
“Your father didn’t die in a car crash.
He’s still alive.
He’s just… in the other house.”
I opened Facebook.
Typed in the name Rose gave me.
And when I found the man’s profile…
My heart dropped.
He had another daughter.
She looked just like me.
And her name…
was also Adaeze.
Follow my pageIhemekwele Daniel Onyedikachi to get notifications whenever I posts..
@highlight
Favour ChizarIhemekwele Daniel OnyedikachiFavour Chizaram Grace
