Never please anyone

Chapter#2

THE SECRET IN THE DRAWER

Chapter 2:

Amara did not sleep that night.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the message on her phone.

Ask your mother what happened the night he died.

Those words kept repeating in her mind.

Who was the stranger? What did they know about her father? And why had they chosen her birthday, of all nights, to reveal this secret?

She wanted to believe it was a cruel joke. After everything that had happened at the restaurant, she could not bear another painful surprise.

But something inside her told her the message was serious.

At six in the morning, Amara finally stood up and walked to the bathroom. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and her birthday dress lay abandoned on the floor.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

"You're not going to cry forever," she whispered.

For the first time in her life, she wanted answers more than she wanted to keep the peace.

She picked up her phone and called her mother.

"Amara? Why are you calling so early?" her mother asked sleepily.

"Mama, I need to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"It's about Papa."

Silence.

Amara gripped the phone tighter.

"Mama?"

"What about your father?"

"What really happened the night he died?"

Her mother's breathing changed.

"Where did you hear that question?"

Amara's heart began to pound.

"So there is something I don't know?"

"Amara, it is too early for this nonsense. We will talk another time."

"No, Mama. Please. I need to know."

"I said we will talk later."

The call ended.

Amara stared at her phone in disbelief.

Her mother had never liked discussing her father, but this was different. She had sounded frightened.

And frightened people usually had something to hide.

By eight o'clock, Amara had made a decision.

She was going to her mother's house.

She dressed in black trousers and a simple white shirt, tied her hair back, and left without eating breakfast.

The journey felt longer than usual. Every passing house reminded her of the childhood she had spent believing that her family had no secrets worth uncovering.

When she arrived, she found her mother in the kitchen preparing tea.

Mrs. Mokoena looked up.

"You should have told me you were coming."

"Would you have answered my questions if I had?"

Her mother placed the teapot on the table.

"Amara, I have enough problems without you bringing yesterday's drama into my house."

Amara felt a sharp pain in her chest.

Yesterday's drama.

Her boyfriend had betrayed her. Her best friend had lied to her. And now the only person she had left was treating her pain like an inconvenience.

"I didn't come here to talk about Thabo," Amara replied. "I came to talk about Papa."

Her mother's face hardened.

"There is nothing to discuss."

"Then why did you sound scared when I asked about him?"

"I was not scared."

"Then look me in the eyes and tell me the truth."

For a moment, neither woman moved.

Then her mother turned away.

"You are too young to understand what happened."

"I'm twenty-four, Mama. I'm not a child anymore."

"Some things are better left in the past."

"Not when they concern my own father!"

Her voice echoed through the kitchen.

Amara had never shouted at her mother before. The moment the words left her mouth, she felt both frightened and strangely powerful.

Her mother stared at her as if she no longer recognised her.

"Who has been talking to you?" she demanded.

Amara hesitated.

"Someone sent me a message."

"What message?"

"They told me to ask you what happened the night Papa died."

Her mother dropped the spoon she was holding.

It struck the floor with a loud metallic sound.

Amara looked down at it, then back at her mother's face.

"Mama?"

Her mother bent to pick up the spoon, but her hands were shaking.

"Go home, Amara."

"No."

"Please."

That one word surprised Amara more than anything else.

Her mother rarely begged.

"I have spent my whole life doing what you ask," Amara said quietly. "I stayed silent when I was hurt. I forgave people who didn't deserve it. I made myself smaller so everyone else could be comfortable."

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"But I'm tired, Mama. I am tired of being the person everyone expects to understand while nobody tries to understand me."

Her mother's eyes filled with tears.

For a brief moment, Amara thought she would finally speak.

Instead, her mother turned and walked toward the bedroom.

"Please leave."

Amara stood in the kitchen, feeling the familiar ache of rejection.

She could have left.

The old Amara would have left, apologising for upsetting her mother and promising never to ask again.

But the woman she was trying to become could no longer live on unanswered questions.

She followed her mother down the passage.

"Mama, I am not leaving until you tell me something."

Her mother stopped at the bedroom door.

"I have told you everything you need to know."

"Then why do you look like you're afraid of the truth?"

Her mother said nothing.

She entered the bedroom and shut the door.

Amara stood outside for several seconds, listening to the silence on the other side.

Then she noticed something.

The bedroom door had not closed completely.

She pushed it gently.

"Mama?"

There was no answer.

Her mother was sitting on the bed with her back turned, holding an old photograph.

When she noticed Amara, she quickly slipped it beneath a pillow.

Amara's eyes narrowed.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Let me see it."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I said no!"

Amara flinched.

Her mother rarely raised her voice like that.

The two women stared at each other.

Then her mother pointed toward the door.

"Leave my room."

Amara stepped backward.

"Fine," she whispered. "But this is not over."

She turned to leave.

As she passed the wardrobe, something caught her eye.

A small wooden drawer beneath the bedside table was slightly open.

Inside it was a bundle of old letters tied together with a faded blue ribbon.

Amara stopped.

She knew that ribbon.

It was the same colour as the one her father used to tie around the gifts he gave her when she was little.

Before she could think twice, she reached into the drawer and pulled out the letters.

"Amara!" her mother shouted.

But it was too late.

The first envelope carried her father's handwriting.

Her hands began to tremble.

She opened it carefully.

Inside was a short letter dated three days before his death.

My dearest Amara,

If you are old enough to read this one day, there may be things about your life that nobody has had the courage to tell you.

I need you to remember one thing. You are loved, even when the people around you make you feel otherwise.

There is a reason I have been keeping certain things from you. One day, you will understand.

Until then, never let anyone convince you that your worth depends on how much you sacrifice for them.

You are my daughter, and nothing will ever change that.

With all my love,

Papa.

Tears filled Amara's eyes.

For years, she had wished she could hear her father's voice one more time. Now, holding his words in her hands, she felt as though a part of him had returned.

But the letter raised more questions than it answered.

Why had he written it?

What had he been hiding?

And why had her mother kept it locked away?

Amara reached for the next envelope.

Her mother rushed forward.

"Give those to me!"

Amara stepped back, clutching the letters against her chest.

"No. Not until you tell me the truth."

Her mother's expression crumbled.

For the first time, Amara saw something she had never expected to see in her mother's eyes.

Fear.

Not anger. Not disappointment.

Fear.

"Amara," her mother whispered, "you don't understand what you're doing."

"Then help me understand."

Her mother sank onto the bed.

For several seconds, she looked much older than she had that morning.

"There are people who would do anything to keep those letters hidden," she said.

Amara's blood ran cold.

"Who?"

Her mother covered her face with both hands.

"I promised your father I would protect you."

"Protect me from whom?"

Before her mother could answer, a loud knock came from the front door.

Both women froze.

Another knock followed.

Then a man's voice called from outside.

"Mrs. Mokoena? I know your daughter is here."

Amara looked at her mother.

Her mother's face had gone completely pale.

"Who is that?" Amara whispered.

Her mother stood up slowly.

"Whatever happens," she said, gripping Amara's shoulders, "you must not tell him what you have found."

The knocking came again.

"Mrs. Mokoena! Open the door!"

Amara clutched the letters tighter.

"Who is he, Mama?"

Her mother looked directly into her eyes.

"He's the last person your father wanted you to meet."

A chill ran down Amara's spine.

She had come looking for answers about her father's death.

Instead, she had uncovered a secret that someone was willing to fight to protect.

And whoever stood outside that door knew she was getting closer to the truth.

End of Chapter 2