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.”
“Mom, I need things too. I need love. I need respect. I need to know that I matter, not just for what I can give, but for who I am.”
“I know. I know that now.”
I didn’t know if I believed her.
But I knew I had said what I needed to say.
The next day, I met Chioma for lunch.
We sat at a quiet restaurant overlooking the Woji Creek, and for the first time in years, we talked honestly.
She cried.
She apologized.
She admitted that she had known, deep down, that what our parents were doing was wrong. But she had been so desperate, so tired of struggling, that she had let herself believe it was okay.
“I’m sorry, Ada,” she whispered. “I should have asked you. I should have respected you.”
