The terms

Chapter4

My hands were still shaking as I stepped out of the car. I didn’t even bother to shut the door. My voice came out tighter than I meant. “Sorry.” as I hit a stranger while walking

But behind the anger was panic.

Mom hadn’t picked up her phone all morning. The last text she sent was, "Chest pains again. Don’t worry, just rest."

Rest? How the hell was I supposed to rest?

And then there was Junior, sitting at home, probably staring at his unopened books because the school sent him away again over fees. I could still hear the principal’s voice ringing in my head, cold and indifferent: "Until the balance is cleared, he can't return."

Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to breathe without a weight on your chest.

Every month is a race, not to save, just to survive. The money comes in, and before I can even hold it, it’s gone. Rent. Medication. Junior’s school fees. Mom’s constant checkups. Food that barely lasts the week.

My bank app doesn’t even greet me with joy anymore, just silence and shame.

It’s exhausting. Waking up every day knowing 2 people are waiting on your strength when yours ran out three paychecks ago.

And the worst part? I can't break down. There's no room for it. Because if I stop, everything else does

The front door creaked open under my hand, and the moment I stepped inside, I heard it, soft, muffled sobs coming from the corner of the living room.

“Junior?” I dropped my bag, my heart climbing into my throat.

He was curled up on the floor, knees tucked to his chest, his small shoulders trembling.

I rushed to him. “What’s wrong? Is it the school fees again? Did they come here?”

He shook his head without looking up. “No.”

My voice cracked. “Then what? Talk to me, baby, what happened?”

He lifted his tear-soaked face, and I swear time stopped.

“Mum... Mum’s not breathing.”

Silence. Just that. Then

“She’s gone, Anita. Mum is dead.”

Dead?

The word didn’t land at first. It just... hung in the air, cruel and impossible. I stared at Junior, lips parted, waiting for him to take it back, to say it was a mistake, a bad joke, anything.

But his eyes said it all.

I shot up from the floor, nearly tripping over myself as I bolted into the bedroom. The smell of menthol and exhaustion still hung in the air. She was there. Lying still. Too still.

“Mum?” My voice cracked.

No answer.

I rushed to her side, my hands trembling as I shook her shoulder gently. Then harder.

“Mum, please wake up. It’s me, it’s Anita. I’m here now. You’re okay. You just need to sit up, take your meds... You can’t leave me. Not now. Please, not now!”

Nothing.

I pressed my ear to her chest, desperate to hear something anything. But all I heard was the pounding of my heart breaking.

A sound clawed its way out of my throat part scream, part sob. I dropped to my knees beside the bed, grabbing her hand like I could hold her back from wherever she had gone.

“No, no, no. You don’t get to leave me. You don’t get to just go. Who’s going to take care of Junior? Who’s going to tell me it’s going to be okay when it’s not?”

Tears blinded me. I sobbed until my body shook, until there was nothing left in me but silence and a pain I couldn’t name.

Junior’s small arms wrapped around me from behind, and together we sat in the stillness, the kind that only death brings

The house was quiet after they took her body.

Too quiet.

Grief has a strange sound not screaming, not crying just this heavy, echoing silence that fills every corner. It settled into my bones.

I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t.

I just sat there, arms wrapped around Junior, staring at the door like she'd still walk through it and say, “You kids should be asleep.”

But she wouldn’t.

She never would again.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, something inside me shifted.

I didn’t have the luxury to grieve like other people did to fall apart and stay there. The world didn’t stop just because mine did.

Rent was still due.

Junior still needed to eat.

And now, there was no backup plan. No mother to lean on. No one to call.

Just me.

By morning, I stood in front of the mirror, eyes swollen, face pale, but my jaw was set. I looked at that girl and knew: the soft version of me died with her. The one who waited, who hoped life would give her a break... she was gone.

Now, I had to become something else.

Someone sharper.

Someone who didn’t beg, didn’t flinch, didn’t waste time on pride.

If survival came with a price, then I was ready to pay it in full.

Even if it meant doing things I once swore I never would.

After Mum died, something in me broke.

I started saying yes to things I used to turn my nose up at.

Yes to handing out flyers in the rain.

Yes to cleaning houses after people too rich to notice how tired I looked.

Yes to being someone I didn’t recognize in the mirror lips painted, skirt short, laughing at jokes that made my skin crawl, just to walk out with enough cash for Junior’s textbooks and paracetamol.

I told myself it was temporary.

I told myself Mum would understand.

But at night, when the house was quiet and Junior was asleep beside me, I’d stare at the ceiling and wonder when surviving started to feel so much like drowning.

And when people asked, “How are you holding up?” I smiled.

Because no one wants the truth.

And the truth is I was tired. Bone-deep tired.

Of pretending. Of pushing. Of being the strong one.

But I kept going.

I remember one night... a night I’ve tried to erase so many times, but it clings to me like smoke.

The room smelled of cheap cologne and air freshener. My hands were shaking as I adjusted the black satin mask over my eyes he couldn’t see me. That was the rule. I stood near the edge of the hotel bed, heart thudding, breath shallow. He didn’t speak. Just walked up behind me, his fingers brushing over my shoulders, then slowly... deliberately... unzipping the back of my dress. It fell to the floor in silence.

He traced a path down my spine, lips barely grazing my skin, making me flinch. I hated how my body responded how it reacted even when my heart was nowhere in the room.

Then he cupped my breasts from behind, thumbs brushing over my n*****s until they hardened beneath his touch. He pulled me closer, lips warm on my neck, his mouth moving downward until it closed around my breast licking, sucking, like he was searching for something I didn’t have the strength to give.

His hands roamed, gripping my thighs, pulling them apart just enough to make me feel exposed. Vulnerable. His palms were warm, his mouth wet, his breath hot against my skin as he murmured things I wasn’t even listening to. I was far away, curled into myself, counting down the minutes till it ended.

The foreplay dragged on slowly, smothering his tongue teasing, his fingers tugging at my underwear like it was some kind of game.

His hands gripped my waist, pulling me onto the bed like I weighed nothing. My mask stayed on anchored to the idea that if he couldn’t see me. When he entered me, He moved slowly at first, like he was reading my body with every thrust, every breath. I wasn’t used to that. Most men were hurried, clumsy, detached transactional. But this… this was something else. He took his time. He explored me like I mattered.

And that was what made it dangerous.

His rhythm was deliberate, intense each stroke pressing deeper than just my body. My thighs clenched around his waist instinctively, my back arching before I could stop myself. I felt myself responding to him, matching his pace, my breath catching with every deep, almost tender thrust.

He groaned low, almost reverent.

And for a second… just one second… I forgot

I let go.

I let the sensation drown out the shame. Let my body take over. It wasn’t supposed to feel good, but it did. It was maddening. He reached places others hadn’t even cared to find, touching something raw and aching inside me I didn’t know was still alive.

I bit my lip to stop the moan, but it slipped out anyway.

He pulled me closer.

Faster.

Deeper.

And I shattered, silently, fiercely, into a pleasure that felt too much like pain.

When it was over, I turned away from him. Mask still on. Eyes wide open.

Because I knew I had given him something I didn’t even mean to.

And I didn’t know if I’d ever get it back.