Lit eZine Vol 10 | p-17 | FICTION | For The Children Who Lost

SHORT STORY

FOR THE CHILDREN WHO LOST
by Tormhen Ivan David

I.

I can not even remember the first time you did it. The first time you took my tiny little heart and shattered it into pieces.

It was all in the absence. The calls you didn’t answer, the birthdays you missed–did not even remember. It was all in the little things you didn’t do. The little things I was too young to know, to understand.

But the first time you did it. That time you really did it, I was eleven. I was graduating. I was graduating from primary school, the one you came to once. Mummy says it’s twice, but my foggy memories of you can only recall once.

I called. Technically, mummy called, and I was allowed to talk to you, to share the big news. I was excited. So excited that when your voice came through the other end of the phone, my trebled voice screamed to tell you—to ask you to come.

I can no longer remember what you told me that day. What I can remember is that you never came—never showed up. You did not show up for me on my graduation day.

Mummy was there. Aunty Winifred baked a large cake and packaged two boxes filled with gifts. I sat on a horse for the first time. We took pictures—pictures you were not in. We made memories—memories you were never a part of.

And even though I laughed and jumped and ate a whole lot of cake, I knew you were not there, and the knowledge did things to my fragile thumping heart.

                            II.

The second time you did it, I was fifteen. I was in secondary school, had just finished my Junior WAEC exams, and was home. I wasn’t idling around. I went to church.

I had faith, I prayed. I was even getting baptized. Mummy was happy, proud. It was all she wanted, for me to draw closer to God and be strong in faith. And now that I was getting baptized, she was over the moon.

Again, I called. Technically, Mummy called. I do not remember if I spoke to you. I do not even remember what you said. My foggy memories of you do not recall it.

But I do recall one thing. On the day of my baptism, while Mummy and Mrs Jones, my godmother, danced and sang praises when I rose from the water, you were missing.

We took pictures—pictures you were not in. We made memories—memories you were never a part of.

Once again, you were not there. Once again, you were missing. Perhaps, busy. Perhaps not in the state. I do not remember whatever flimsy excuse you gave, but I remember not seeing you.

                            III.

I was 17 when you did it again. I was graduating again, from high school this time—the one you never came to. I was over the moon when we were given invites by the school and released to go home and prepare for our graduation. 

It was the day following my arrival that I texted you. I did not call this time. Or maybe I did, and you did not answer—can’t recall which one, but you did the latter so often that I’d just go with it.

In my text, I told you I was graduating. I told you I wanted you to come, I wanted to see you. I told you, even though I knew you were going to come up with one excuse or the other. Even though your constant absence was beginning to fill me up, and I knew you would not come.

Yet, I told you. And somewhere within me, I hoped. I prayed. I hoped that you might, for once this time, tell me you would come. I prayed for you to actually come—to show up and let me point at you for once in my life and boast to everyone, “That is my father.”

But when mummy’s phone beeped, you were in Abuja and would not be able to show up. My hopes were dashed. My prayers refused to reach God’s ear. My heart squeezed. I do not know whether I was sad or angry, or both.

But I do know that I texted you right back. I pointed out to you all the times you were never here. All the times you were in Abuja. All the times you were too busy with work. I poured out my heart to you, I cried to you.

Looking back, I think—no, I know, I was trying to prick your conscience. I was trying to guilt-trip you into showing up. I thought that if I did, you would come. But boy, was I wrong.

That day, you taught me a lesson. Even in your absence, you managed to teach me that lesson. You taught me never to beg again. You taught me that I can not change a person’s mind. You taught me that people never change because you have begged them to.

When mummy’s phone beeped again, I was to understand when I grew up. My heart clenched, and I wanted to grow up immediately so I would understand why. Why was I not worthy. Worthy of you.

On the morning I graduated, I was getting dressed when someone told me my father was outside the hall looking for me. My heart skipped a beat. On my way out, I thought of all the ways I would react when I saw you. I thought of how you looked. And even though you have hurt me time and time again, I beamed till I reached the hall’s exit, where they said you were.

It was not you. It was your brother, the one who was constantly available at every event in my life that you were too busy to be in. The one who showed up.

The one whose bald head shimmered in the morning sun as my smile faded.

He was early for the graduation ceremony, and he wanted me to show him where he could sit. I did.

                              IV.

I was eighteen and sick when you did it yet again. I had a wisdom tooth growing in my mouth. My sight was blurry. My sickle cell crisis was kicking in. Mummy said she had no money.

The morning of that day, Mummy fried potatoes and eggs, and I hurriedly chewed on them before leaving home for Makurdi, where you lived. I took a public bus.

Yes, that was how close you were to me. And yet, you felt so distant, so far away. I remember the excitement I felt in that bus at the thought of seeing you, perhaps, spending the night at your place.

I remember picturing your reaction when you see me. You’d be happy to see me, maybe scream my name. You’d be proud of my final examination results. You’d tell people I was your son. You’d hug me. I’d cry in your arms, and all will be forgiven.

I remember picturing how you look. Everyone said I looked like you, but I did not remember how you looked, even though a large portrait of you hung in my mother’s living room. It was her way of keeping you in our memories.

But even though I was bubbling with excitement and anxiety, a part of me did not know what to expect. A part of me held back—cautiously. It was afraid. Afraid to imagine things, afraid that my imagination would not be reality. It was right.

When I arrived in Makurdi, I went to your sister’s office, hopped into her car, and she drove me to you.

When we met, my reality did not match my imagination. You were not happy to see me; in fact, you were vexed. You asked me harshly why I came, and I told you.

You were not proud of my final examination results. In fact, you looked at them with a blank expression before tossing the papers back at me.

You did not hug me. You told your sister to take me back to her home. She refused. You insisted, and you both exchanged words in anger.

You did not even have the decency to invite me into your home—the very home I type this in.  You did not tell people I was your son. In fact, you hastily got rid of my presence.

I cried. But not in your arms as I had imagined. I cried silently in the backseat of your sister’s car while Justin Bieber’s “Cold Water” blasted as we were on our way back to her house. You had insisted, you won.

And as I muffled silent cries in the backseat of your sister’s car, I promised myself that those tears were the last I would shed for you. They were.

It was late in the night when I ate my next meal, semovita and chicken stew.

                             V.

I was nineteen when you did it again. I was at home that Monday when that call came in to let mummy know you were dead. You died in the early hours of yesterday. How? You got sick.

Mummy wailed. I have never in my life seen her cry like that. She refused everyone’s comfort and continued to weep on the floor of her living room.

I was shocked, but only for a while. I was sad, but not for you. I mourned, but not you. How could I? You had yet again hurt me—deeply, powerfully.

I mourned, but not you. I mourned what never was: the bond, the conversations, the love that could’ve been, your presence. I mourned everything I yearned for but never got. I mourned.

It has been years since you told me I would understand. I am grown, Daddy, but I still do not understand why. Why was I not worthy.

But I have learned to grieve. I learned that a grief like mine isn’t just about death, it’s about lost chances, unmet hopes, unanswered prayers, and the silence between two people who should’ve been close.

I have learned that I am hurt, but I do not have to move on. That this type of hurt, one just learns to move with it. Some days, it’s heavy. Other days, it sits quietly in the background.

But I must keep living—slowly, intentionally—building things in my life that bring meaning, connection, and maybe even healing.

And I have learned that even though I feel like it, I am not the biggest loser. I am someone who cares enough to feel the weight of absence. That’s not losing. That’s love, unreturned maybe, but real all the same.

I wish you love, I wish you peace, I wish that in your next life, you would find someone worthy. And if I had one more wish, I’d wish that you were a man of your word.