"No mother prays to watch her child run from the only home he has ever known. We pray to see our children grow, marry, raise families and bury us when our time comes. But my story with Stephen was different. Every knock on my door became a warning. Every phone call made my heart race. I lived with the fear that one day someone would tell me my son was dead."
For years, I carried a pain too heavy to explain. People saw me smile in public, but they never knew the silent tears I cried behind closed doors. My son, Adjatey Stephen, was born like every other child, full of dreams and hope. As his mother, I never imagined that one day I would watch him leave Ghana, not because he wanted a better life, but because, according to what he shared with me, he feared he would not survive if he stayed.
Looking back now, I still remember the young boy who loved to laugh and believed the world was kind. None of us knew the road ahead would be filled with heartbreak, loss and difficult choices that would eventually separate our family across continents.
As Stephen grew older, he became quieter. Sometimes I would ask him if everything was alright, and he would simply smile and tell me not to worry. It was only years later that he opened up to me about the struggles he had been carrying since his school days. He spoke about friendships, relationships, fear and the constant pressure of living a life he believed had to remain hidden. As a mother, it hurt me that my son had been carrying such a heavy burden alone.
After leaving school, Stephen returned home and worked with his father in the family transport business before trying to build a career in information technology. He always wanted to work hard and make something meaningful of his life. Through those years he met new friends, found employment and tried to move on with life, believing that tomorrow would be kinder than yesterday.
Then came the Christmas of 2016, a day our family will never forget.
Stephen later told me that after spending the evening with friends, he and someone very close to him were attacked while returning home. He described how a small misunderstanding turned into violence within moments. By the time help arrived, both men had suffered serious injuries. My son survived, but the other young man did not.
When I saw Stephen after the attack, I could hardly recognise him. His body bore the marks of what he had endured. Every movement caused him pain, and every conversation reminded him of the friend he had lost. A mother never forgets seeing her child in that condition.
The days that followed were even more difficult. Fear settled over our family. Stephen believed he was no longer safe, and every unfamiliar visitor or unexpected phone call left us anxious. We prayed constantly that the situation would calm down, but instead the uncertainty only grew.
To protect him, we agreed that he should leave home and start afresh in Accra. It was one of the hardest decisions any parent could make. We believed distance would give him peace, yet even from far away, I could hear the worry in his voice whenever we spoke.
In Accra, Stephen found work and tried to rebuild his life. Every mother hopes that time will heal old wounds, but some scars remain invisible. Though he worked hard, he often told me he still feared that his past would one day catch up with him.
When an opportunity later came for him to travel to Dubai, we encouraged him to take it. We hoped a fresh environment would finally allow him to breathe freely and leave behind years of fear and uncertainty. But life had other plans. Even while abroad, he continued to worry about his future and about the safety of those of us back home.
I never imagined that one day I would become part of the story myself.
There were times when strangers came looking for Stephen. There were questions I could not answer and moments that left me frightened. I chose not to tell my son everything because I knew he was already carrying enough pain. A mother's instinct is to protect her child, even if it means suffering in silence.
In late 2023, Stephen planned to return home briefly before travelling onward. I was excited. I counted the days and looked forward to seeing my son again after such a long time apart. But fate had a different plan.
After another frightening incident, I told him not to come home. No mother wants to deny herself the joy of embracing her own child, but I could not bear the thought of anything happening to him. Instead, I told him to continue his journey and stay safe. It broke my heart, but it was the only choice I believed would keep him alive.
Just when I thought the worst was behind us, another painful chapter unfolded.
On 12 July 2026, my peace was shattered once again. What happened that day brought back memories I had spent years trying to bury. After everything my family had already endured, I never imagined we would once again find ourselves living in fear.
This time, I refused to remain silent.
The incident was reported to the Ghana Police Service, and as I prayed that the authorities would thoroughly investigate what had happened, I realised that silence could no longer protect my family. Sometimes, speaking out is the only way to seek justice and ensure that a family's voice is heard.
On 13 July 2026, I contacted a media professional whose contact details had been shared with me. I was looking for someone who would patiently listen without judgment and help tell my son's story truthfully. "That conversation eventually led to my family's story being shared with Event Diary Lifestyle, where I finally found the courage to let the world hear our journey."
I did not speak out to seek sympathy or attention. I spoke because I wanted people to understand the emotional burden our family has carried—the fear, the uncertainty and the pain that have followed us from one chapter of life to another. For years, we remained silent, hoping time would heal our wounds. Instead, every new incident reopened them.
For many people, Stephen's journey ended the day he arrived safely in Canada. For me, his mother, the journey continues every single day. Every phone call still makes my heart skip a beat, and every unfamiliar number reminds me of the years we have lived in uncertainty.
I still pray for only one thing: that one day my son will return to embrace me—not in fear, not in hiding, but in peace. Until that day comes, I will continue to believe that hope is stronger than fear, and that no mother should ever have to choose between seeing her child and keeping that child alive.
