Chapter Three – Things That Fall Apart Quietly
928 Words
There’s a kind of silence that hums.
It’s the one that fills a house after a fight — when words have already done their damage, and only the echoes are left behind.
That’s what our home in Abuja became: a quiet, humming shell.
Dad started coming home late again. Mum stopped waiting up. The spaces between them grew wider, and somehow, I became the bridge neither of them dared to cross.
At dinner, we’d eat in near silence. The clinking of cutlery sounded louder than it should have.
Sometimes, Mum would ask about school to break the tension.
“Your grades are still good?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Any problems?”
“No.”
“Good.”
And that would be the end of it.
One Friday evening, I was in my room scrolling through my phone when I heard the front door close quietly. I peeked through my curtains and saw Dad outside, talking to someone near his car—a woman.
She was tall, stylish, and laughing — the kind of laughter that carried easily through the night air.
Something in my chest tightened. I didn’t want to believe it, but the way he touched her arm — gentle, familiar — said everything words couldn’t.
I turned away, heart pounding.
I didn’t sleep that night. I kept staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between the clicks of the wall clock.
By morning, I decided I didn’t want to know more. But life has a cruel way of making sure you do.
At school, I couldn’t focus. Even Ethan noticed.
“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for fifteen minutes,” he said softly.
I blinked, realizing he was right.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “My mind’s a bit… noisy.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. “It’s complicated.”
He nodded, not pushing — which somehow made me want to tell him everything.
We walked around the school field later, our shadows stretching long across the grass.
“My dad’s seeing someone,” I said finally, my voice barely a whisper.
He stopped walking. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “I saw them. Last night.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. Then, quietly, “That’s rough, Amy. I’m sorry.”
I tried to smile, but it felt heavy. “I keep thinking maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s an explanation.”
“Even if there is,” he said gently, “you still feel what you feel.”
I looked at him then — really looked. His eyes were soft, but there was something sad behind them, too. Maybe he understood more than he was saying.
That weekend, Mum asked me to go with her to a wedding in Maitama. She said she didn’t want to go alone.
I knew why — she didn’t want to be the only one showing up without her husband.
She wore a pale pink gown and tied her scarf so beautifully that even I stared at her for a moment. For the first time in a long time, she looked radiant.
“Beautiful,” I said.
She smiled faintly. “Let’s pretend everything’s fine for a few hours, shall we?”
I nodded.
At the reception, music filled the air, and laughter sparkled like champagne. Mum smiled and mingled, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. When someone asked about Dad, she just said, “Work kept him.”
But as the night went on, something strange happened — she started to glow again. She danced. She laughed with old friends. And for a few hours, it was like the woman in the yellow dress at Jabi Lake had returned.
When we got home, though, the magic faded.
Dad was waiting by the door.
His eyes softened when he saw her, but Mum brushed past him.
“Claire,” he said quietly, “we need to talk.”
“Now you want to talk?” she snapped. “After all this time?”
“I know I’ve made mistakes, but please—”
“Save it,” she said, her voice breaking. “Just save it.”
She stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her.
I stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding.
Dad turned to me, guilt heavy in his eyes. “Amy…”
“I saw her,” I whispered. “The woman.”
His shoulders sagged. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” I asked, tears burning my eyes.
He didn’t answer. He just rubbed his temples and said, “You wouldn’t understand.”
And then he left. Again.
That night, I sat on my bed, hugging my knees. I texted Ethan.
Me: “Do you ever feel like your family’s falling apart and there’s nothing you can do?”
Ethan: “All the time.”
Me: “How do you stop it?”
Ethan: “You don’t. You hold on to the parts that still love you.”
His words stayed with me.
Because even though it felt like everything was breaking, I knew there were still small pieces worth holding on to — my mother’s laugh, my father’s smile from years ago, and the quiet comfort of someone who understood without needing to ask too much.
But I didn’t know then that the absolute truth — the one that would shatter everything — was still waiting just around the corner.
And when it came, nothing would ever be the same again.
- Writer
