On Mother’s Day, Paige Atwiine does not make plans.
While others mark the day with calls, visits, and social media tributes, she often withdraws into herself, avoiding the celebrations as much as she can. It is not resentment, she explains, but a feeling she has never quite been able to shake.
‘Those days; Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day, they make me feel so sad. Even when I am surrounded by people, I feel like… where is my family?’ she says.
It is a question engrained in a childhood marked by loss.
Atwiine’s father died when she was just three months old. Her mother passed away when she was 10. Between those two losses, and in subsequent years, she moved through different homes, growing up under the care of relatives who stepped in where they could.
Her earliest years after her mother’s death were spent with a cousin who had just started working as a primary school teacher in a rural area. Life there was simple and structured, and it introduced her to responsibility at an early age.
‘It was quite a different environment, far from Kampala. ‘But it taught me how to live with a family, how to adjust,’ she recalls.
After about three years, she moved to her paternal uncle’s home in Kampala, once his circumstances had stabilised. There, her life took on a different rhythm. One that, in many ways, resembled a typical childhood.
‘Growing up with my uncle was a good experience. It was a complete home with parents. We had tuition, food, and holidays. We went sightseeing even beyond borders,’ she says.
Her uncle’s job allowed the family a modest but comfortable life. At 12, she boarded a plane for the first time, an experience she still remembers clearly, one that many may not have experienced.
‘It felt like a normal childhood,’ she says.
She grew up alongside her cousins, many of them close to her age, sharing daily routines and family life. From the outside, there was little to suggest that anything was missing. But for Atwiine, there was always an awareness that her situation was different.
A mother remembered in fragments
Atwiine’s memories of her mother are few and mainly tied to sensory detail.
‘I remember she cooked rice and groundnuts. And she had flowers outside her house… purple, maroon,’ she says.
She pauses, as if trying to reach further back.
‘That is what I remember.’
She was about five years old at the time of that visit. Her parents’ families had not agreed after her father’s death, and her mother had returned to her own home. Decisions about where Atwiine should live were influenced as much by financial capability as by family ties.
‘My father’s family could afford school fees and a good home. So it became about what is good for the child, not necessarily being with my mother,’ she explains.
As a result, she grew up largely away from her.
Even now, her mother’s face is not something she can easily recall.
‘I cannot remember her face unless I see a photo. And sometimes I even doubt if it is really her,’ she says.
Yet, for years, the idea of her mother offered a sense of comfort.
‘All my life, I told myself I have a mother somewhere. Even if I did not see her, I believed she loved me. That was my consolation when things were hard,’ she says.
The terrible journey
When Atwiine was 10, a message came through that her mother was unwell and that she should go and see her.
For Atwiine, it was a moment she had long imagined.
‘I was so excited. I wanted to tell her everything; what I had gone through, who had been kind, who had not. I wanted to just be with my mother,’ she says.
She set off on the journey believing she would finally have that chance. Somewhere along the way, the story changed.
‘We were travelling from Kampala to Kabale. I thought I was going to see her in hospital,’ she recalls.
Instead, before they reached their destination, she was told that her mother had died.
‘I started wailing. People on the bus were asking what was wrong with me,’ she says.
When her aunt explained, the reaction was immediate.
‘They were saying, ‘Bambi, poor child, poor child.”
At the burial, she was asked to view the body.
‘I could not bring myself to do it. I did not want that to be my last image of her,’ she says.
Still, fragments of that moment stayed with her; the sight of the coffin, the brief glimpse of a face, the finality of the burial.
‘I remember the grave,’ she says quietly.
That day marked a shift in how she understood her world.
‘I sat myself down and told myself I am now alone. Because all my life, the only consolation I had was that I have a mother somewhere,’ she says.
With that gone, she felt she had nothing left to hold onto.
Raised by many, shaped differently
In the years that followed, Atwiine was raised by a network of relatives who took on different roles in her life. Her uncle became a central figure, providing stability and structure.
‘I feel like he filled both the father and mother gap more than anyone else,’ she says.
Her uncle’s wife also stepped into a motherly role, taking on the day-to-day responsibilities of raising her.
‘She did her best. She never missed my visitation days at school,’ Atwiine recounts.
But the relationship was not without its challenges.
‘There were things she would say about me, about my body. And those things stayed,’ Atwiine says.
Even now, as an adult, she finds herself shaped by those early comments.
‘I still hear that voice telling me what I can or cannot wear,’ she admits.
Later, living with her paternal aunt as she prepared for university, Atwiine found different care. One that focused more on affirmation and guidance.
‘She talked to me about my body. She told me I had a beautiful body, that I was fine. If anyone says anything now, I remember what she told me,’ Atwiine says.’
Her aunt also took practical steps to support her, including taking her to a gynaecologist when need arose.
Looking back, she sees each of these women as having played a role, none fully replacing her mother, but each contributing in different ways.
Growing up without desired guidance
Despite the support she received, there were areas of her life where Atwiine felt lonely.
One of the most difficult was navigating puberty.
When she got her first period in Primary Six, she did not tell anyone.
‘For a whole year, I used cloth and toilet paper. I was scared to tell my aunt,’ she says.
She relied on what she had learnt in school; basic lessons delivered during sessions for girls, but much of it was trial and error.
‘I would wash the cloth and hide it in the room. Sometimes I would stain my uniform, so I would tie a sweater around my waist,’ she recounts.
It was only later, when the situation was discovered, that it came into the open.
By secondary school, access to sanitary products became easier, but the experience had already left its mark.
‘There are things you figure out on your own. But maybe if I had a mother, she would have told me,’ she says.
The part that remains missing
Atwiine says despite everything she received growing up, there is a part of her experience that remains incomplete.
‘They did 90 percent, but there is always that 10 percent void no one can fill. I became independent but very guarded,’ she says.
That absence has shaped her personality in lasting ways. Trust does not come easily.
‘I feel like people do not stay. Because when my mother died, it felt like everything was temporary, especially the people you love,’ she explains.
At times, the impact surfaces unexpectedly.
‘When bad things happen, I find myself grieving my mother through crying,’ she says.
Days that bring it back
There are specific times of year when the absence feels sharper. Mother’s Day is one of them. So are Christmas and Easter occasions centred on family and togetherness.
‘I always feel left out. Even when I am with people, I feel like… where is my own family?’ she notes.
In those moments, she finds herself imagining a different life.
‘As a child, I used to think maybe there was a mistake. That one day a family would come looking for me and say I belong to them,’ she says.
It was a way of holding onto the possibility of having both parents again.
Living with the absence
Today, Atwiine does not try to frame her experience in terms of gain or loss in a conventional sense. For her, the reality is simpler.
‘You do not gain anything from loss. Loss is loss,’ she says.
She acknowledges the care she received, the opportunities she had, and the people who stepped in. But, what could not be replaced.
‘There is a love that comes from your mother that no one else can give. No matter what they do,’ she says.
As she looks ahead, she sometimes wonders how her experience will shape the kind of mother she might become. For now, she carries both the strength and the gaps that came from her upbringing.
And on days such as Mother’s Day, she leaves a message.
‘I hope people who have mothers know what they have and cherish it,’ she says.