Chapter 2
1173 Words
The house changed after the burial.
It was not sudden, but steady, like water seeping into walls. Things were moved without explanation. Her mother’s clothes disappeared from the wardrobe one by one. The chair she used to sit on was pushed closer to the wall. The smell of her cooking faded until it became something Amina could no longer remember clearly.
People stopped coming around.
Life, everyone said, had to go on.
Amina did not know what that meant.
Her father became distant in a way that felt physical. He was present, but not there. He left early in the mornings and returned late in the evenings. When he spoke, it was brief and practical. Eat. Sleep. Get ready for school. He did not ask how her day went. He did not notice when she stopped telling him things.
One afternoon, Amina returned from school and noticed a woman in the kitchen.
She was unfamiliar. Not an aunt. Not a neighbor. She moved around confidently, as though she belonged there.
Amina stood by the doorway, watching.
The woman turned and smiled. “You must be Amina.”
Amina nodded slowly.
“I’m cooking,” the woman said. “Go and wash your hands. Food will be ready soon.”
Amina didn’t move.
“Where is my father?” she asked.
“He’s inside,” the woman replied easily. “Go and greet him.”
Amina walked away, confusion tightening her chest.
That evening, her father called them together.
“There is something I need to tell you,” he said.
They sat on the floor, side by side.
“This woman will be staying with us,” he continued. “Her name is Kemi.”
No one spoke.
“She will help take care of the house,” he added. “And of you.”
Amina stared at him.
“Is she replacing mom?” she asked before she could stop herself.
The room went quiet.
“That’s not how you speak,” her father said sharply.
“I just asked,” Amina replied. “Because mom hasn’t come back.”
Her father looked away.
That was when Amina understood something important: questions made adults uncomfortable, but silence made them feel safe.
So she stopped asking.
The woman stayed.
Days turned into weeks, and the house rearranged itself around her presence. Her laughter was louder. Her footsteps heavier. Her rules unfamiliar.
When Amina mentioned her mother, the woman frowned.
“Don’t dwell on the past,” she said once. “You children must move forward.”
Amina did not know how to explain that the past was not behind her. It walked with her everywhere.
One evening, she overheard a conversation she was not meant to hear.
“You can’t keep them here,” a voice said. “It won’t work.”
“They are my children,” her father replied.
“And I am your wife,” the woman said quietly. “This house needs peace.”
There was a long pause.
“They will stay with family,” her father finally said. “Just for a while.”
That night, Amina lay awake.
She did not understand what “a while” meant, but she knew it was not good.
The separation happened quickly.
There was no long discussion. No explanation given to the children beyond what was necessary.
“You’ll be staying with your aunt for now,” her father said one morning. “Your brothers will go elsewhere.”
Amina’s heart dropped.
“Why can’t we go together?” she asked.
“It’s better this way,” he replied.
“For who?” she asked softly.
He did not answer.
On the day they were sent away, Amina packed a small bag. Her school uniform. A notebook. One dress she liked. She slipped her mother’s scarf inside without telling anyone.
Her brothers stood nearby.
“When will we come back?” she asked them.
“Soon,” one of them said, though he did not sound sure.
They hugged awkwardly, like people who did not know how to say goodbye.
When Amina climbed into the car, she turned to look at the house. It looked smaller than she remembered.
Her father stood by the door.
She waited for him to wave.
He did not.
Her aunt’s house was louder.
Too many voices. Too many instructions. Too many expectations.
“You must wake up early,” her aunt said on the first day. “This is not your father’s house.”
Amina nodded.
She tried to be helpful. She swept. She washed plates. She stayed out of the way. Still, she often felt like she was in trouble for things she did not understand.
“You’re too quiet,” her aunt said once. “What are you always thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Amina replied.
That was a lie, but it was easier.
At night, she lay on a mat near the door. Through the window, she could hear other families laughing, arguing, living.
She pressed her face into the pillow and whispered to herself.
“I will not cry.”
Sometimes she succeeded. Sometimes she didn’t.
School became her refuge.
There, she was just another child. No one knew her story unless she told it. She listened carefully, observed people closely, learned when to speak and when to stay silent.
Teachers called her well-behaved. Mature for her age.
No one asked why.
On weekends, she wondered about her brothers. Where they slept. Whether they ate well. Whether they remembered their mother the way she did.
She tried asking her aunt once.
“They’re fine,” her aunt said. “Don’t worry yourself.”
But worry did not need permission.
Months passed.
Her father did not visit often. When he did, he brought gifts and spoke kindly, but there was distance in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked once.
Amina nodded.
“Are they treating you well?” he added.
“Yes,” she replied.
He smiled, relieved.
She watched him leave, feeling something twist inside her chest. She had told the truth, but not the whole truth. And he had accepted it too easily.
That night, she realized something else.
Adults often heard what they wanted to hear.
One evening, as she washed plates, her aunt sighed loudly.
“These children,” she said to no one in particular. “Always a burden.”
Amina’s hands froze.
She finished washing quietly and went to her corner.
For the first time, anger joined her sadness.
Not loud anger. Not the kind that breaks things. But the quiet kind that settles deep and waits.
She held her mother’s scarf tightly and made a promise to herself.
“I will grow up,” she whispered. “And I will not forget.”
She did not yet know what she would become. Or how long the road ahead was.
But she knew one thing clearly.
She would survive.
And one day, she would choose for herself where she belonged.
- Writer
