My father was a man of many contradictions. He had five wifes and seventeen children, each of us born into a world of complex relationships and unspoken expectations. Growing up in a house with so many siblings felt like a whirlwind, where love was shared in different forms and loyalty was often tested. But while the house was always full of noise, laughter, and chaos, there was one person whose presence was quietly overshadowed—my mother.

She was the first wife, the one who had borne the brunt of my father’s decisions. While he moved on to other women, building his empire of families, my mother stayed. Her love was fierce, but so was her suffering. She bore the pain of being the one who always sacrificed, the one who had to deal with the emotional scars left by my father’s absence, even when he was physically present. My mother suffered from an illness that no one truly understood, an illness that drained her spirit and made her feel invisible in a house that demanded so much from her.

She spent years caring for all of us, cooking, cleaning, and making sure we never went without, all while her own health deteriorated. She never once asked for help. The weight of her responsibilities was immense, but she never showed weakness. When my father was with his other wives, she endured the loneliness and the unspoken pain of being the “first,” yet left behind in his eyes.

But despite everything, my mother’s strength was something I could never forget. Through all the suffering and challenges, she never gave up on us. She kept pushing forward, hoping that one day we’d understand the depth of her sacrifice, the love she had for us, and the pain she carried in silence.