My Late Mom Spent All Her Life Trying To Please My Father, And That Is Why My Siblings and I Hated Him So Much

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My Late Mom Spent All Her Life Trying To Please My Father, And That Is Why My Siblings and I Hated Him So Much

Before you hate us or judge us for not liking our father, please read my story first and understand where we were coming from.

My father was a pastor.

Not just any pastor. He pastored one of the biggest churches in our city.

My mother was what people lovingly called “Mommy G.O.”

Every Sunday, church members would rush to greet her.

“Good morning, Mommy.”

“God bless you, Mommy.”

“Mommy, you look beautiful.”

To everyone else, she looked like the perfect pastor’s wife.

But those of us who lived with her knew a different story.

For as long as I can remember, my father never stopped comparing my mother to other women.

I was her only daughter, so I was very close to her.

Every Sunday morning followed almost the same pattern.

Mom would dress up and then stand in front of the mirror for what felt like forever.

Then she would call me.

“Ife, come here.”

I would walk into her room.

“How is the neck of this dress? Is it too open?”

“No, Mom.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Does this beret fit me well?”

“Mom, you look beautiful.”

“Are you sure this dress is not too tight?”

“Mom, you look perfect.”

Back then, I thought she was simply trying to look good.

As I grew older, I realized it was something deeper.

It was insecurity.

And unfortunately, my father was feeding it.

No matter what my mother wore, he always found fault.

“What kind of dress is this?”

“Why is your neck showing like that?”

“Look at how your collarbone is sticking out.”

“What kind of beret is this?”

“You want people to think I don’t take care of my wife?”

The painful part was that if you heard him speak, you would think he was a devoted husband who spoiled his wife with gifts and affection.

He wasn’t.

My father spent money making himself look good.

Beautiful suits.

Expensive shoes.

Perfect ties.

Elegant shirts.

He would stand before thousands and preach powerful sermons.

Meanwhile, I cannot remember him buying clothes for my mother.

Not one.

My mother hustled for herself.

She bought her own clothes.

She took care of herself.

She contributed to the family.

And somehow, she still wasn’t enough.

What hurt me even more was watching what happened during church fundraisers.

My father would stand on the altar and say,

“If you know God wants to bless you, come out and sow fifty thousand naira for the church building project.”

The church would become silent.

Nobody moved.

Then my mother would stand up.

Always the first.

Always.

She would walk to the front and give.

And once she did, other people would begin to follow.

I watched that happen year after year.

The woman he criticized the most was the same woman carrying his vision on her shoulders.

My brothers and I struggled to love him.

How do you love a man who constantly tears down someone who loves him?

How do you respect a man who keeps comparing his wife to other women?

He would always say to her,

“Can’t you see Sister Agnes?”

“Look at Sister Veronica.”

“See how elegant they dress.”

“See how refined they look.”

Every comparison stole a little more joy from my mother’s heart.

So I made it my mission to remind her of her worth.

Whenever she dressed up, I would tell her,

“Mom, you are the most beautiful woman I know.”

She would smile shyly.

“You want to make me blush.”

My brothers did the same.

We encouraged her.

We praised her.

But deep down, we knew our words could never fully replace the validation she desperately wanted from her husband.

The man whose opinion mattered most was the one refusing to see her.

Then came the shock that changed everything.

Mom had cancer.

We didn’t know.

Because she was already naturally slim and because she had spent years battling self-esteem issues, we didn’t notice that sickness was quietly eating her away.

One day, she finally gathered us together.

She told us about the diagnosis.

Then she said something I will never forget.

“No matter what happens, don’t hate your father.”

We stared at her.

She continued.

“Human beings may hurt you. Church people may hurt you. But God will never hurt you.”

That was my mother.

Even in pain, she protected people’s hearts.

Even while dying, she pointed us toward God.

One Sunday morning, while preparing for church, my father started again.

Complaining.

Criticizing.

Finding faults.

Talking about how skinny she looked.

Something inside me snapped.

I marched into their room.

“Can you stop for once?”

The room became quiet.

I pointed at my mother.

“Can you appreciate this woman for one day in your life?”

My father looked stunned.

I continued.

“Do you even know she has cancer?”

I expected shock.

Concern.

Fear.

Anything.

Instead he said,

“Cancer cannot exist in my home. Anybody with cancer lacks faith. I am a man of God.”

I cannot explain the anger that rushed through me.

My hands were shaking.

Then he turned to my mother.

“Wait… you have cancer?”

My mother nodded.

He looked confused.

“Why didn’t I know?”

I answered before she could.

“Because you were too busy criticizing her to notice.”

My mother immediately stopped me.

“He is still your father.”

Then she asked me to leave.

I left before I said something I would regret.

After that day, something changed in my father.

For the first time, he seemed shaken.

Really shaken.

He started coming home early.

He followed my mother to hospital appointments.

He sat beside her.

He listened.

He cared.

On Saturdays, instead of spending all day at church counseling members, he stayed home.

For the first time in years, he started acting like a husband.

But honestly?

It was hard for us to accept.

The wounds were too deep.

Years of pain could not disappear because of a few weeks of change.

Then, less than a month later, my mother went to be with the Lord.

The day she died, a part of us died too.

Her final words were simple.

“Forgive your father.”

Then she repeated the lesson she had taught us all our lives.

“People may hurt you. God never will.”

After she was gone, we expected my father to quickly move on.

After all, he spent years comparing her to other women.

We assumed he would marry one of them.

Maybe Sister Agnes.

Maybe Sister Veronica.

But he didn’t.

Months passed.

Then years.

He refused.

One day we confronted him.

“If you loved Mom this much, why didn’t you show it when she was alive?”

He had no answer.

Later, he called all of us for a family meeting.

That day changed everything.

He apologized.

Not the kind of apology people give when they want peace.

A real apology.

He admitted he had failed.

He admitted he had taken her for granted.

He admitted he had become so consumed with ministry that he forgot the family God entrusted to him.

My brother couldn’t hold back.

“But wait a minute, with what money did you expect her to dress better? You barely bought her anything.”

Silence.

Another of my brother spoke.

“I am still a Christian today because of Mom, not because you were a pastor.”

That statement hit him hard.

For almost ten minutes, he said nothing.

Then he covered his face with both hands.

When he finally looked up, tears were running down his cheeks.

“I am sorry.”

That was all he kept saying.

“I am sorry.”

For the first time, we saw not a pastor.

Not a leader.

Not a father.

Just a broken man who had realized too late what he had lost.

Forgiving him wasn’t easy.

Some wounds don’t disappear overnight.

But we forgave him.

Not because he deserved it.

Not because it was easy.

But because our mother asked us to.

And because carrying bitterness was becoming too heavy.

Today, whenever I think about my mother, I remember a woman who spent her life loving people who didn’t always love her back.

A woman who gave generously.

A woman who never stopped showing grace.

A woman whose faith remained strong even in her darkest moments.

And whenever I think about my father, I remember a painful lesson.

Sometimes people don’t realize the value of what they have until it is gone.

But by then, it may be too late.

So appreciate the people God has given you.

Tell your spouse you love them.

Celebrate them while they can still hear your voice.

Notice their sacrifices.

Speak life into them.

Don’t wait until a funeral to say what should have been said at the dinner table.

Because flowers are beautiful, but they mean much more when given to the living than when placed on a grave.

Moral Lessons

1. Appreciation delayed often becomes regret.

Never assume the people who love and support you already know how much they mean to you. Speak your gratitude now, because tomorrow is never guaranteed.

2. Ministry, success, and achievements mean little if you neglect the people closest to you.

Charity truly begins at home. The greatest testimony of your faith is not how many people admire you publicly, but how well you love the people entrusted to you privately.