I was carrying the Christmas cake when I overheard my mother say, “Don’t bother asking her. Let your sister have the apartment for free.”
I was carrying the Christmas cake when I overheard my mother say, “Don’t bother asking her. Let your sister have the apartment for free.”
I stood silently behind the door, stunned.
Then I walked in, smiled, and enjoyed dinner like I had heard absolutely nothing.
Episode 3.
The calls didn’t stop.
They came in waves. First angry, then tearful, then desperate.
My mother called me twenty-three times in one hour. My father sent messages demanding I “fix this immediately.” Emeka, who had never once contributed a single naira to anything in his life, had the audacity to text me: “This is not fair to Chioma. She has children.”
As if I didn’t know.
As if I hadn’t been the one buying those children’s Christmas gifts every year while their father chased one failed business after another.
I didn’t respond to any of them.
Instead, I did something I should have done years ago.
I went to see a therapist.
Her name was Dr. Boma Eze, and she had an office in D-Line, Port Harcourt. She was warm, patient, and direct in a way that reminded me of my grandmother, who had died when I was sixteen.
I told her everything.
The years of sacrifice. The constant pressure to be the “responsible one.” The way my parents had trained me to believe that my worth was tied to what I could provide for others.
And the moment I heard them decide my future without me.
Dr. Eze listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked one question.
“Ada, what do you want?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
Then I closed it.
I didn’t know.
