I Told Him About The Second Pregnancy And He Walked Away – The Letter Reminded Me I Had A Future

The second test blinked positive before I could even set it down. Two red lines stared back at me, sharp and merciless. I sat on the clinic bench, my palms cold. I texted him again: “It’s positive. I’m pregnant, Sam.” The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. A full minute passed. Then another. No reply.

I refreshed the screen, my heart slamming inside my chest. When the notification finally popped up, it wasn’t a message but a blank grey circle.

He had blocked me.

Just like the first time.

Tears stung my eyes, but I couldn’t cry. Not again. I scrolled aimlessly, searching for something, anything, to distract me. That’s when I saw the unread email — “Congratulations! Your application to Eastfield University has been accepted.”

For the first time that day, I exhaled.

Maybe love had failed me. But maybe life hadn’t.

When I met Sam, I was twenty-one and still learning to love without losing myself.

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He was the type of man who smiled with half his mouth — the kind that made you want to believe there was something more behind his silence. He worked in IT, was always busy, and was always “on call.” I was finishing my diploma in Communications at a small college in Nairobi West.

We met at a cousin’s birthday dinner in Kileleshwa. He offered me the last piece of cake, and I remember thinking how gentle he was. He chuckled, eyes soft, and asked for my number with a shyness that didn’t seem fake.

By our third date, I was already building castles in my head.

Sam wasn’t loud or flashy like most Nairobi men I’d met. He called every night, sent lunch money when I was broke, and remembered how I liked my tea — strong with a lot of milk. I mistook his consistency for commitment.

When I missed my period the first time, I panicked. I hadn’t told anyone, not even my best friend, Sharon. I waited until I’d taken three tests before I called him.

He said nothing.

Not disbelief, not anger. Just silence. Then a short message: “I’m not ready.”

I thought he’d come around. Instead, he disappeared.

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I carried the pregnancy alone, working at a small PR agency in Hurlingham while trying to keep up with prenatal appointments. My parents lived in Nyeri, and I didn’t want to burden them. They thought Sam and I were still together.

When my daughter, Pendo, was born, he didn’t show up—not at the hospital, not after.

I tried to be strong. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I could do it alone. For a while, I managed. I found part-time work writing social media content for brands. Rent was tight, but we survived. Pendo’s laugh became my therapy.

Then, two years later, Sam came back.

He said he’d been “confused,” that he missed us. That he wanted to “make things right.” I didn’t know whether to slap or hug him, but my loneliness won.

We met at a café in Kilimani. He looked thinner, quieter. He held Pendo for the first time, and she smiled like she’d known him all along.

Maybe that’s what broke me.

I told myself people change. That maybe love deserved a second chance.

For a while, it felt like we were rebuilding something real. He came around more often, took Pendo to the park, and even fixed my leaking sink one Saturday morning. I began to imagine a family again.

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So when I missed my period the second time, I didn’t panic. I thought this time, it would be different.

I was wrong.

I called him that night, hoping he’d at least listen. He didn’t pick up. I sent a message explaining everything — the test, my fear, our child. The next morning, his profile photo vanished, and the small grey circle appeared. That was how I knew he’d chosen silence over me again.

After Sam blocked me, I sat outside the clinic staring at nothing.

The city moved around me like it didn’t care. Matatus honked, vendors shouted about airtime offers, and a mother passed carrying a toddler almost Pendo’s size.

I should have felt something—anger, grief, maybe even shame—but all I felt was numb.

The doctor said the pregnancy was in its early stages, maybe six weeks, and everything looked fine. “You’ll need rest,” she’d added gently, as if she knew I had nowhere soft to land.

I clutched my bag tighter, my mind spinning through bills, Pendo’s school fees, and the memory of Sam’s last hug. It had felt sincere. It had felt safe. Now it felt like a lie.

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I walked home to our small one-bedroom apartment in Kikuyu. Pendo was with Sharon, who’d taken her to the playground. When I entered, the silence hit hard. There were toys on the couch, half-done laundry, and the smell of cold ugali.

My phone buzzed again. I looked up, half hoping. But it was only Safaricom reminding me I had one bob left in airtime.

I sank to the floor.

Minutes blurred into hours. At some point, I opened my email. I’d applied for a scholarship months ago — a long shot, something I didn’t expect to hear back about—a communications degree at Eastfield University, evening classes, and a small grant attached.

The acceptance letter stared at me.

Congratulations, Ms Makena. We are delighted to inform you…

It felt unreal. Like a life raft thrown into a storm.

I’d printed the forms by the time Sharon dropped Pendo off that evening. She found me sitting at the table, papers spread out, pen in hand.

“Eh, Mama Pendo, what’s all this?” she asked, setting her handbag down.

“I got in,” I whispered.

Her eyes widened. “University? That program you told me about?”

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I nodded.

She hugged me, tight and warm. “See? God’s not done with you.”

I wanted to believe that. But every part of me still ached from Sam’s silence.

That night, I lay awake listening to Pendo’s soft breathing. The thought of raising two children alone terrified me. But beneath the fear, something small flickered — a kind of quiet resolve.

The next morning, I registered online and paid the small admission fee. My account was almost empty afterwards, but for the first time in months, I didn’t feel trapped.

Classes began two weeks later.

I arranged my schedule around Pendo’s daycare. I’d drop her off at eight, work my half-day job at a digital marketing firm in Upper Hill, and rush to campus by five. By the time I got home, I’d be exhausted — but it was a good exhaustion, the kind that meant movement, not stagnation.

During the first trimester, mornings were hard. I’d vomit behind the office building, rinse my mouth, and return to my desk smiling like everything was fine.

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My boss, Mrs Mwende, was sharp but kind. She noticed I was struggling and quietly reduced my workload without asking why. I think she knew.

One evening after class, I fainted near the gate. When I came to my senses, my classmates were around me — Mercy, Amina, and Joe, who always sat at the back, making everyone laugh.

They became my circle.

Mercy brought me fruits every week. Amina helped me revise for exams. Joe once walked me all the way to the bus stop in the rain when he realised I had no umbrella.

They never asked where the father was. They just showed up.

Sam, on the other hand, stayed silent.

He’d unblocked me once — I saw his profile picture appear — but still said nothing. Not even to ask about Pendo. Not even to ask if I was okay.

When my belly began to show, I had stopped checking my phone.

While sorting old clothes one Saturday, I found the small bracelet Sam had bought for Pendo when she was born. I turned it over in my palm for a while, then put it in a box labelled Past.

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That evening, I felt the baby kick for the first time.

I smiled.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like I was doing this alone.

It was a rainy Thursday when Sam called.

I was in class, half-listening to a lecture about digital campaigns, when my phone buzzed. The name flashed on the screen like a ghost. Sam.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded so loud that I barely heard the lecturer call my name.

After class, I stood under the shelter outside the main hall, watching the rain blur the city lights. My thumb hovered over the screen before I finally answered.

“Hello?”

His voice came soft, unsure. “Hi, Makena. How are you?”

I wanted to laugh. How was I? I was seven months pregnant, balancing classes, work, and motherhood. But all I said was, “I’m fine.”

He hesitated. “Can we talk? Please. Just once.”

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Against my better judgment, I agreed. We met that Sunday at a café near the university. He looked older — tired — but still had that half-smile that used to undo me.

He ordered tea. I didn’t. I just waited.

“I heard about the baby,” he started quietly. “I know I messed up.”

I said nothing.

“I panicked, Makena. I wasn’t ready then and didn’t know how to face you. But I’ve been thinking a lot. I want to make things right this time.”

I studied him carefully. His eyes darted between the table and my belly. There was guilt there, yes, but also fear — and something else I couldn’t place.

“Make things right how?” I asked.

He reached into his jacket and placed a folded envelope on the table. Inside was some cash. “For you and Pendo. And the baby.”

I pushed it back. “You think money fixes this?”

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“It’s a start,” he said softly. “I’m married now, but things are… complicated.”

The words hit like cold water.

I froze. “You’re what?”

He avoided my gaze. “Her name is Carol. We got married last year. It happened fast. She doesn’t know about you. Or the baby. Please, Makena, don’t ruin what I’ve built.”

My hands trembled. The café noise faded, replaced by the ringing in my ears.

“So that’s why you came back?” I whispered. “To silence me?”

He leaned closer. “No. To help you. Quietly. You don’t have to tell anyone. I’ll send money. Just don’t bring drama.”

I almost laughed then — a sharp, hollow sound that turned heads.

“Drama?” I said. “You walked away from your daughter. From me. Twice. And now you want peace?”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. But I can’t lose everything. Please understand.”

I stood up. My chair scraped the floor. “I do understand, Sam. You’re a coward.”

He flinched, but I didn’t stop. “You were never confused. You were just selfish. You wanted love without responsibility. But I’m done begging for crumbs.”

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I left him there, staring into his untouched cup of tea.

That night, I sat by Pendo’s bedside and cried — not from heartbreak, but from release. The illusion had finally shattered.

I emailed the financial aid office the next morning about extending my grant. I also decided to apply for a part-time position on campus, helping the communications department with student campaigns.

It wasn’t just survival anymore. It was rebuilding.

Two weeks later, Sam tried calling again. I didn’t answer. Then he texted, “Please, just let me be part of their lives.”

I replied once: “Start by being honest with yours.”

Then I blocked him.

This time, for good.

After blocking Sam, life became quieter — not easier, but steadier.

I had imagined heartbreak as loud and messy, full of tears and dramatic nights. But what followed was softer: silence, discipline, and slow healing.

The university became my second home. I grew to love its rhythms — the chatter between classes, the smell of roasted maise near the gate, the hum of students chasing their own second chances.

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Every morning, I’d drop Pendo at daycare, rub my belly, and whisper to the baby inside, We’re doing this, okay?

By the eighth month, my classmates treated me like family. Mercy would scold me for walking too fast, Amina would sneak me samosas during group projects, and Joe — always the joker — nicknamed my unborn child “Professor.”

At work, my boss finally asked the question she’d been avoiding. “Makena,” she said gently one afternoon, “who’s helping you through all this?”

“God,” I answered truthfully. “And my friends.”

She nodded, eyes soft. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Her words carried me through the final stretch.

When contractions came one rainy evening in March, I was at my desk, finishing a campaign report. I called Sharon, who arrived in record time, heart pounding as she helped me pack a small bag.

At Nairobi Women’s Hospital, I laboured through the night, clutching the nurse’s hand, whispering prayers between cries.

A small, healthy baby boy was placed on my chest by dawn. His skin warm, his cry fierce. I named him Jayden.

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When I looked at him, I felt something shift inside me. Not a void filling up, but a new strength forming.

Sam didn’t know. I didn’t tell him.

A week later, I returned home, exhausted but proud. I pinned my printed acceptance letter on the wall above Pendo’s crib — now slightly creased but still precious. Next to it, I added my class schedule and a photo of me holding both my babies.

Between breastfeeding sessions, I studied. Between diaper changes, I wrote essays. Pendo became my little assistant, bringing me pens and crayons as if she understood the importance of what I was doing.

When the semester ended, I was surprised to find my name on the Dean’s List. I cried quietly that night, holding both children close.

Years passed in motion — assignments, daycare runs, late-night typing. Life didn’t slow down, but somehow, I learned to move with it.

When I walked across the graduation stage, Sharon was in the audience, waving wildly, tears streaming down her cheeks. My classmates cheered. Even my boss came, holding a bouquet of yellow roses.

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When they handed me the certificate, I felt every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every moment of fear turn into light.

Later that evening, at home, I hung my cap-and-gown photo above the crib — right where the acceptance letter had been.

I stood there for a long moment, looking at both of them asleep.

Love hadn’t saved me. But purpose had.

And this time, it stayed.

I no longer checked my phone, hoping for messages that would never come. I no longer compare my story to anyone else’s. My life wasn’t perfect, but it was mine — stitched together by courage, mistakes, and small miracles.

Once, I’d believed my worth depended on being chosen. Now, I understood it was in the choosing — the daily decision to keep moving, even when the world felt heavy.

When people ask about Sam, I just smile and say, “He gave me two reasons to become everything I was afraid to be.”

And that’s enough.

Sometimes life doesn’t fall apart to destroy you. It falls apart to rebuild you — piece by piece, into someone stronger, wiser, and truer to herself.

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I thought I had lost everything when Sam walked away the second time. But what I really lost was the illusion that love had to come from someone else to be real.

I found a different kind of love that grew quietly amid sleepless nights and lecture halls. It was in how Pendo hugged me after every long day, in Jayden’s tiny fingers gripping mine, in how my classmates cheered when I crossed that stage.

I realised that survival isn’t just about getting through pain; it’s about refusing to let pain define you.

I used to believe my story had to fit a particular picture — the happy couple, the neat family, the man who finally “came around.” But sometimes, redemption doesn’t look like a reunion. Sometimes it looks like a woman signing her name on a graduation certificate while her children sleep peacefully beside her.

Sam taught me what love without commitment feels like. Life taught me what purpose feels like.

And between the two, I’d choose purpose every time.

If there’s one lesson I’d leave with anyone reading this, it’s that being left behind isn’t the end of your story. It’s the beginning of the one you write for yourself.

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So, I ask — what if the love you’re waiting for is already inside you, just waiting for you to choose it?

This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.

Source: YEN.com.gh