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“My mother did this,” she said, her voice strange and cold. “She lied to me. She made me believe you were dead. She stole seven years from us. She kept me from my own daughter.”
“Yes,” Amecha said.
“Does she know you’re alive? Does she know Zara exists?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been careful. I never use my real name for anything official. I pay in cash. Zara goes to school under my surname. We stay hidden.”
“You shouldn’t have to live like that,” Amara said. “You shouldn’t have to hide.”
“While you believed the lie,” Amecha said quietly. “While you moved on.”
“I never forgot you,” Amara said. “Not one day. I missed you every day. I thought you were gone.”
“And now I’m not,” he said. “So what happens now?”
Amara thought of Zara upstairs. Her daughter. A child who did not know her mother existed.
Then she thought of Gloria Okafor, the woman who had raised her, taught her, shaped her, controlled her.
The woman who had destroyed her life.
“I don’t know,” Amara said honestly. “But I’m going to fix this.”
“You can’t fix seven years.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But we can stop hiding. And we can make sure my mother never hurts anyone again.”
“How?”
“I’m going to confront her,” Amara said. “I’m going to make her admit what she did. Then I’ll make sure she pays for it.”
“Amecha, keep Zara safe,” she said, already moving toward the door. “Lock the doors. Don’t let anyone in except me.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
Amara looked back.
Her eyes were cold in a way Amecha had never seen before.
“I’m going to see my mother.”
Amara drove fast.
Too fast.
She did not call Gloria to warn her. She did not want to give her time to prepare another lie.
Chief Mrs. Gloria Okafor lived in a mansion in Ikoyi. High walls. Electric wire. A swimming pool no one used. A perfect garden maintained by staff.
Everything outside was beautiful.
But Amara now knew what lived inside.
She pulled into the compound, slammed the brakes, and marched to the front door.
She did not knock.
She used her key.
“Mother!” she shouted. “Mother, I know you’re here!”
Her voice echoed through the marble hallway.
Footsteps clicked on the tile.
Gloria appeared at the top of the curved staircase, wearing a cream boubou with gold embroidery. Her gele was perfect. Her jewelry was expensive and understated.
She looked calm.
Elegant.
In control.
“Amara, my dear,” she said with a warm smile. “What a surprise. Why didn’t you call?”
“Amecha is alive,” Amara said.
Gloria’s smile did not change.
“I’m sorry?”
“My husband. The man you told me died seven years ago. He is alive.”
Gloria came down the stairs slowly and walked into the living room.