I was four months pregnant and living in a one-bedroom apartment.
He said he’d found someone “better.”
Someone with money.
He left me and our baby to marry a rich woman.
Twelve years later, I was the caterer at his daughter’s wedding.
I begged him.
He said,
“Stop making a fool of yourself. No rich man wants a woman like you.”
Twelve years later, I walked into a wedding hall as the caterer.
Guess who was in charge?
Him.
Guess who the bride was?
His daughter.
And guess who he had to beg…
to cater his only daughter’s wedding?
Me.
My name is Ifeoma, and I believed in love.
When I was 21, I met Kenneth.
He was handsome, funny, and always said,
“I’ll build an empire with you.”
We struggled together.
We sold top-up cards, did odd jobs.
He’d squeeze my hands and whisper,
“Someday we’ll laugh about this.”
I thought he meant it.
Until I gave him some news that changed everything…
Part 2
After that call, I spent the entire night preparing lists, adjusting recipes, and calculating portions.
The order was for 350 people. I’d never catered such a large event.
But I couldn’t say no.
I was determined to give it my all.
Not just because it was a great opportunity.
But because… something about that voice, that insistence, seemed familiar.
On the day of the event, we arrived with two vans full of food.
My employees were uniformed, all wearing aprons embroidered with “Delightful Pots by Ifeoma.”
The hall was spectacular: marble columns, fresh flowers, golden chandeliers.
The wedding of someone very, very rich.
Then I saw him.
Kenneth.
He was pacing, giving directions.
Older. Broader. But unmistakable.
My heart leaped.
I hid behind a column, watching.
He was with a woman dressed in a gold gele.
And next to them, a young woman dressed in white, smiling nervously.
It couldn’t be…
Was it her?
Kenneth’s daughter?
The girl he chose over ours?
The daughter of the rich baker?
My chest tightened.
At that moment, one of the waiters called my name.
“Madam, they’re ready for service.”
I took a deep breath and walked out with my head held high.
Kenneth saw me.
His eyes widened.
He froze.
I kept walking as if nothing had happened.
I supervised my staff, indicated where to put each tray, organized the dishes.
My apron was clean. My makeup was perfect.
I felt her gaze fixed on me.
And then, as if that weren’t enough, the bride approached.
“Are you… the owner of Delightful Pots?”
I nodded, not knowing what to expect.
The young woman smiled broadly.
“I love your jollof! I tried it once at a school party when I was twelve, and I’ve never forgotten it. I told my dad I wanted you to cook at my wedding.”
My throat closed up.
Kenneth, standing behind her, swallowed.
“Isn’t it amazing?” the girl said. “You cooked part of my childhood.”
I could barely speak. I just smiled.
“Thank you, dear. It’s an honor to be here today.”
She left, and Kenneth approached me.
“Ifeoma… I had no idea…”
I looked at him firmly.
“You had no idea what? That the woman you impregnated was going to survive?”
He looked down.
“I know I have no right to ask you for anything, but… thank you for coming. Thank you for doing this for her.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I said, my voice firm. “I did it for my daughter. And for me. Because I’m no longer the woman you used to know.”
Kenneth sighed. And in his eyes, there was something I’d never seen in him: shame.
“Can I meet her… someday? Kamsi.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not up to me. It’s up to her.”
I walked away.
But something told me the story wasn’t over yet…
Part 3
The wedding continued with music, laughter, and toasts.
I stayed on the sidelines, organizing from the corner like any professional. But inside, the storm was just beginning.
Kenneth didn’t speak to me again during the event.
But as we were starting to dismantle, I ran into him in the parking lot.
“Ifeoma, please…” he said, his voice low. “Where is she now?”
“Now you’re interested?”
“I was always interested… it’s just…” He hesitated. “Things were complicated.”
I looked at him with suppressed rage.
“You had choices. You chose to disappear. You left me with a pregnancy, a broken career, a shattered reputation. While you… you married the rich baker and became a pastor.”
“It was a mistake… but I was young too. I was scared. My family—”
“Don’t talk about your family!” I interrupted. “My mother died of grief because of what you did to me. My father kicked me out of the house. I cleaned bathrooms with a seven-month belly.” And you were preaching about fidelity in an air-conditioned church!
A heavy silence fell.
Then I gave her the address of my restaurant.
“If you want to talk to Kamsi, present yourself as a man. But I’m warning you: don’t hurt her. Because I’m not the same Ifeoma I used to be. And now, I have something to lose.”
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