It started when I was only a teen. I’m almost thirty years old now and I still can’t take the hatred out of my heart.
Our church had a new pastor. My mom had a position in church but my dad didn’t. Every day after church, my mom would stay in the church house for hours and come home in the evening, complaining about tiredness. She wouldn’t cook and wouldn’t do anything wives do for their husbands because it was a Sunday.
My dad was the kind who didn’t talk a lot. You wouldn’t find him complaining or shouting or even fighting. I saw them exchanging words one day but immediately my dad saw me, he stopped but my mom continued as if she hadn’t seen me.
One day after church, we were told to wait behind, we, the kids in the children's choir. A white lady visited the church and wanted to have a meeting with us. My dad went home, my mom went to a leader's meeting and after the meeting, I saw her entering the pastor’s office.
Our meeting took like two hours. The white lady was teaching us a song and showing us videos of the places she had visited. By the time we closed, the church premises was empty but I didn’t see my mom coming out of the pastor’s office so I decided to wait for her.
Several minutes later, she wasn’t coming. “Maybe she doesn’t know I’m waiting for her so let me go in and tell her I’m around.”
I went and knocked but nobody answered. I opened the door and met an empty office. I stood there for a while, I don’t know what I was waiting for. A few minutes later, the door to the chamber flung open. My mom came out first. She was pulling down her skirt and was trying to tie the thread in the waist of the skirt. Her headscarf was hanging on her neck with messy hair.
Immediately she saw me, she shuddered. “Herh Akos, what are you doing here?” She turned away to preen herself up. Pastor followed. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles. The first time I’d seen him without them. He looked sweaty in a short knicker and a t-shirt.
I was very young but I didn’t need a necromancer to tell me what had happened. I turned away and waited for her outside. When she came out and saw me, she was livid. She started shouting at me, “What are you doing here? Why are you not home? Did I ask you to wait for me? C’mon, leave here.”
I walked home while she followed, wearing the face of guilt and a smile of a heartbreaker. That’s where the hatred started. My dad was a good man and he didn’t deserve a cheat for a wife. He died not too long ago but while my mom was mourning, all I could feel for her was hatred.
The surprising thing is, they had a good marriage. They took very good care of us. My mom was very responsible and fought our fights for us. You can celebrate her on Mother’s Day and you won’t be wrong but she cheated. She slept with a pastor who preached against adultery in church and counselled women who had cheating husbands.
My dad is dead and gone. I don’t want to carry on with the hatred. Looking at how my mom has aged, she deserves love from all of us, but I can’t love her the way she deserves. They say I should talk to her about it now that my dad is no more. It’s the only way I can forgive her. I feel she would lie about it. I feel she would be defensive and even hate me for carrying this information for over sixteen years.
Should I? Or I should learn to let go and love her regardless? Is it even possible to love someone without learning to forgive first?
The questions swirl in my mind as I remember those days, the Sundays that stretched into the evenings. My mother’s laughter echoing from the kitchen as she prepared the little we had for dinner, while I sat silently at the table, resentment festering in my heart. She didn’t know. How could she? I never told her.
Over the years, I’ve replayed the scene in the pastor’s office countless times. Each replay added a layer to the hatred I felt for her. It wasn’t just about the act; it was the betrayal, the hypocrisy, and the guilt she imposed on me for seeing her in such a compromising position. The years went by, and I watched my dad grow weaker, never suspecting the woman he loved so dearly had shattered the sacred vows of their marriage.
When he passed, I thought my anger would die with him, but it didn’t. Instead, it morphed into something more profound, more consuming. My mom cried, and I stood there, feeling nothing but a cold indifference. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her she had no right to those tears, but I stayed silent. I’ve always stayed silent.
In the quiet moments of my life, I think about what could have been. Had I spoken up, would things have been different? Would my dad have left her, or would he have forgiven her? These are questions I’ll never have answers to. They are buried with my father, just as my ability to love my mother is buried with my childhood innocence.
Friends tell me to confront her. “It’s the only way you’ll find peace,” they say. But what if the confrontation leads to more pain? What if she denies it, or worse, what if she admits it and I’m left with the raw truth of her infidelity? Can I handle that? Can I look her in the eyes and forgive her?
I sought counsel from a therapist once. She told me that forgiveness is not about the other person; it’s about freeing yourself from the chains of anger and resentment. But how do I forgive someone who doesn’t even know they need forgiveness? How do I release myself from a burden that has defined so much of who I am?
Every Sunday, I watch my mom go to church, her Bible clutched in her hands, her face serene. She sings in the choir, her voice pure and unwavering. I wonder if she ever thinks about that day, if she ever feels the weight of what she did. Or has she convinced herself that it never happened, that it was a figment of her teenage daughter’s imagination?
The hatred sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. I want to love her. I want to be able to hug her and feel warmth instead of cold detachment. But every time I try, the memory of that day rushes back, and I’m fifteen again, standing in that office, my world crashing down around me.
I’m told that forgiveness is a journey, not a destination. Perhaps my journey begins with understanding. I’ve never asked my mother about her life, her dreams, and her disappointments. I’ve never tried to see her as a woman beyond the roles of wife and mother. Maybe, if I understood her better, I could find a way to forgive.
I remember a time when I was very young, and my mother was my whole world. She was my hero, my protector. I recall the nights she stayed up with me when I was sick, the countless sacrifices she made to ensure we had a good life. These memories are fleeting, overshadowed by the betrayal, but they are there, fragments of a love that once was.
I decide to take the first step. I invite her for a walk, something we haven’t done in years. She looks surprised but agrees. As we walk, I listen to her talk about her life, the things she’s passionate about, and the struggles she’s faced. I see a side of her I’ve ignored for so long, a side that is vulnerable and human.
We sit on a bench, the evening sun casting a golden glow around us. I take a deep breath and tell her about the hatred I’ve harbored, the moment that shattered my perception of her. She listens, her eyes wide with shock and then filled with tears. She doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t make excuses. She simply apologizes, her voice trembling with emotion.
In that moment, something shifts. The stone in my chest feels lighter. It’s not gone, but it’s no longer as heavy. We talk for hours, about the past, about my father, about us. There are tears, there is pain, but there is also a glimmer of hope.
Forgiveness isn’t a single act; it’s a series of steps, each one bringing me closer to healing. I know it will take time, and there will be days when the anger resurfaces. But for the first time in years, I feel like it’s possible. I can see a future where the hatred no longer controls me, where I can love my mother without the shadows of the past looming over us.
As we walk back home, my mom and I, side by side, I feel a sense of peace I haven’t felt in years. The journey to forgiveness is just beginning, but at least now, I’m not walking it alone. We are rebuilding our relationship, one conversation at a time, and I’m learning that it’s possible to let go of the past and embrace the future.
It’s not easy, and there will be setbacks, but I’m determined to heal. My mother deserves a chance to make amends, and I deserve a chance to find peace.
When I came across your channel, I decided to share my story too. Who knows, it might encourage someone out there to forgive whoever hurt them. Or it might encourage someone to also share their stories of how they overcame a betrayal. If your audience can also share with me what other ways I could heal faster and stronger, I will be grateful.