Scar beneath the smile

Swinging with complication

From behind, I could sight two individuals sitting in front of his desk, and the first thought struck me like a physical blow: Was he putting me up for adoption? My head rang with the possibility.

“Thank you, Sister Agnes. I’ll take it from here. Daaja, please come in.”

Sister Agnes slipped out quickly, the heavy, dark oak door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud that felt terribly final. Just looking up, I saw the eyes I dreaded. I forced a deep, steadying breath into my lungs, straightening my spine, and walked closer to the desk.

The office of Father Emeka was a space of old, quiet authority—usually a haven, but today it felt like an interrogation chamber. The walls were lined with towering shelves of ancient, leather-bound theological texts, and the air was thick with the faint, comforting scent of aged paper and beeswax from the heavy candle lit on the corner of the desk. Above the Father’s head hung a massive mahogany crucifix. The desk itself was a dark, carved monstrosity, littered with neat stacks of papers, a worn leather Bible, and a perpetually overflowing inkwell.

“Daaja,” I heard a woman’s voice—a voice that was familiar and foreign all at once.

“Father, you called for me.” I kept my gaze locked on the priest’s stern but kind face.

“Yes, I did,” he said, slowly adjusting his square, wire-rimmed glasses. He sighed, the sound heavy in the silent room. “It’s your mother. She has finally come to take you back.”

My carefully constructed composure fractured. “Father, you’re my only family. This place... I do not have anyone besides you people. Do you want to throw me out of here to some stranger?” My voice was dangerously level, bordering on a plea I hated myself for making.

“Daaja, it’s me—your mother.”

I finally turned sharply, my glare venomous. I allowed myself to truly study the woman who had abandoned me and now called herself my mother. I could clearly see the resemblance between us, but I chose to ignore it. The mother I remembered was thin, tired, and dressed in simple cotton. The woman standing before me was breathtakingly transformed: a silk blouse, tailored trousers, and a glittering diamond ring on her finger that captured the faint morning light. She had hit the jackpot.

Next to her sat the new husband.

My eyes narrowed, taking in the man I already resented. He was undeniably handsome, perhaps forty-five, but carrying his age with tailored confidence. His skin was pale, contrasting perfectly with the rich, luxurious texture of his brown quarter-zip sweater and crisp, cream-colored chinos. What truly arrested me were his eyes: a sharp, clear green that held a distant, almost cold intelligence. His hair was a neatly styled gold. As he casually rested his hand on the arm of his leather chair, a polished, glittering Rolex watch exposed itself—a silent declaration of wealth and status.

"If this is over, I was in a class. I’ll go and continue. I don’t want to miss the lecture. If you will excuse me.” I offered a stiff, shallow bow, refusing to look at my mother again, and began to pivot toward the door.

“Daaja!” my mother cried out in true disbelief, her voice cracking. She sprang up to approach me, but the priest raised a hand, stopping her.

“Mrs. Dave, let her be for now. I’ll make sure I speak to her. She is hurt.”

“Yeah, darling. She has a lot to sink in,” Dave, the husband, murmured, standing up slowly and placing a calming, authoritative hand on her shoulder.

“I can’t believe she’s this mad at me,” my mother choked out, the reality of my cold rejection hitting her hard. She covered her face, her perfect makeup momentarily forgotten as it melted into a mask of pain. “I’m sorry,” she wept, the words barely audible between her sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She collapsed to her knees, Dave still holding her tightly. “Now you see why I was scared of coming here? I knew she would treat me like trash. I knew she would hate me! I’m a bad mother, Dave! I’m bad!”

Outside the door, I was already running. Maybe not physically fast, but inside, I was sprinting.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and heavy—but I scrubbed them away quickly, almost angrily.

What hurt the most wasn't what she said. It was what I saw: the raw, trembling pain in her eyes. So real, so vulnerable. And somehow, that made it worse. It haunted me. She looked so… beautiful. That was the thought I couldn’t get rid of, no matter how hard I tried.

Yes, I could accept that my father had died. And maybe, I could even understand that my mother needed to move on. But with a white man? A man whose wealth literally radiated from him. A man who gave her a diamond so big it could blind your thoughts. A man who made her look like royalty. How did she get that life?

I couldn’t breathe. So I ran—all the way to the forgotten part of the school, the back where all the abandoned buildings stood. It was where they dumped broken furniture, cracked lab stools, torn books—things no one needed anymore. Funny. I used to love coming here. It was always so quiet, and somehow the silence gave me space to imagine a life I had always wanted. I hadn’t been here in almost a year. No one knew about it but me.

Now, I was back—and my heart was breaking all over again, just when it was starting to mend. This time, I couldn’t hold it in. I let the tears fall. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. Even a little joy. It all rushed out, mixing into one long, silent cry.

After a while, I wandered toward the old swing—the one Father Emeka had given me on my 10th birthday. He had bought it just because I wouldn’t stop begging for one. He had it placed on the primary school field. Back then, it was bright red. New. Mine. Now, it was rusted and forgotten—like most good things in my life.

My eyes were puffy and raw. My fingers traced the cool, chipped metal as I grabbed the iron chains and slowly sat on the swing. I pushed myself back and forth, gently, the squeaking sound the only thing around. Trying not to cry again. Trying to remember who I was. Trying to forget what I wasn’t. I leaned my head against the iron bar, exhausted, letting my gaze settle on the stack of termite-eaten desks in the corner. This was my safe place. And yet… today, even here, I felt lost.

“I think I need to start taking taxes from defaulters,” the voice said.

That voice. That accent. It could only be one person. I turned sharply.

“Ala—”

“Alaric,” he corrected calmly before I could finish.

My mouth froze. I stammered. He looked at me, noticed the tears still fresh in my eyes, and sighed softly. Then, casually, he walked over to the swing.

“Shift a bit.”

“Arghh... it’s a swing. I don’t think—”

“Adjust. It's gonna fit. You're not that fat.”

“I think I should just leave,” I muttered, already rising, trying to hide my messy face.

But before I could fully walk away, he gently held my arm. “Have you seen your face? You look like a weeping clown.” He said it so childishly, I almost smiled. “Sit. I'm not a monster.”

I obeyed. Not because he asked, but because something about his voice made it hard to say no.

It had been two years and six months since I met Alaric Walterson. I remember the very first day he walked into Sister Agnes' office; I was in there stacking books when he and his mum walked in. That was when my heart first fell for him, and since that day, I had never known peace.

And now, with graduation less than a month away, here he was—beside me. Talking. Touching. Swinging. Of all the moments I’d imagined with him, I never thought this one would come true.

Why today? I thought. Why now, while I look like a mess with my eyes red and swollen? I look ridiculous.

But there we were on the swing, and he sat so close and comfortably, like this was something he did every day. My heart was tearing itself apart.

“Let me help you,” he said, looking down at my legs. “Since they're too short to even touch the ground.” He looked down at me, smiling, while I looked up at him with my innocent, nervous eyes.

He started pushing the swing—high. Higher than I’d ever gone, even with our combined weight. I panicked and instinctively grabbed his hand, holding on like it was the only thing between me and death. He looked down at me then, taking in my packed hair and my squeezed face, and smiled.

“Seems our Sister Mary is also a little scaredy-cat.”

That name. Immediately, I pulled away, tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and adjusted my glasses like a classic nerd.

“What’s wrong? You hate the name?” he asked, his tone suddenly quiet.

From his pocket, he brought out something—a stick and a lighter. I stared, shocked, blinking fast. He lit the tip of the stick casually, the flame flickering beneath it.

“But they weren’t wrong,” he said, his voice low.

I shot him a glare, sharp and loaded—but instead of backing off, he smiled. It was that kind of smile that made you forget why you were even mad in the first place. Seeing that the argument wasn’t going anywhere, I looked away.

But then… he gently reached out. His large hand, much bigger than mine, held my jaw softly and turned my face back toward him.

“Let me explain to you,” he said, his voice calm. “They compare you with Sister Mary for a reason. Even though they don’t see it, I see it.”

I blinked.

“Reason one,” he began. “Mary was one of the strongest and bravest women to ever live. She was willing to sacrifice the love of her life—the man she was about to marry—just to carry Jesus.” He paused. “Anyone else would’ve said no. They would’ve cared about their image, their comfort. But she stood her ground. And Joseph... lucky for her, he understood,” he teased lightly, his smile pulling at his lips.

“You’ve stayed within the four walls of this school all your life. No sneaking out. No gangs. Just... you. Strong, steady. Honestly, Daaja—you are just like that. Just as brave and strong as she was.”

I blinked again, my heart thudding. He looked at me, the cigarette still in his fingers.

“I’m sure she did, baby,” he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

My head spun, but I was too emotional to react.

“How did you even get that?” I asked, gesturing to the cigarette.

He smirked. “A day student snuck them in for me.”

“They’re bad for you,” I said softly, trying to take them from his hand—a small smile breaking through my tears.

“You cheater,” he laughed, for the first time fully. That deep, unfiltered laughter. He looked... happy. “I thought you were crying. Go back to crying, Daaja.”

“Not until you throw it away!” I said, still grabbing for the pack.

I got off the swing, giving myself more leverage. But no matter how much I jumped, he kept holding it up—too tall, too smug. My hair bun loosened, and as I made one last reach, my balance gave out. I stumbled and fell right into him. My head against his chest, his arms instinctively caught my waist, and just like that, my hair spilled down.

His hands were still holding me… and we were just there. Breathing. Close. Too close. I looked up, and our eyes locked—again. Only this time, neither of us looked away.

He looked straight into my eyes. “I’m proud of you.”

Those words—they cut straight through me. Not in a painful way. In the kind of way that heals something that’s always hurt. No one had ever said that to me. Ever. And somehow, I felt more seen in that moment than in my entire life. He kept talking, but I wasn’t even hearing words anymore. I was just staring at him, eyes moving across his face, his lips, his jaw, his voice… My mind went places I never thought it could.

“Secondly,” he said, “Mary was beautiful.” He paused and leaned slightly closer. “And so are you.”

This time, I didn’t look away. My hands itched to reach for his face. To feel if it was real. But I blinked hard, trying to stay grounded.

“And third…” he said, finally exhaling the smoke from the cigarette, “she was kind. The sweetest woman.” He looked at me then, serious. “Just like you.”

Tears slipped out before I could stop them. “You make it sound so good, Alaric…”

He hummed, the kind of sound that settles deep in your chest.

“Was Mary ever weak too?” I asked quietly. “Did she ever feel like her world was… crumbling? I'm sure.”

“I never doubted how pretty you are,” he said softly.

“Thanks,” I muttered, quickly pulling away and re-packing my hair into a bun, trying to gain some control back.

“Since you don’t like them,” he said, flicking the cigarette away, “I’ll toss this one—at least till you leave.”

But not the pack.

“Are you just going to stand there or come sit?” he asked casually, tapping the swing beside him.

I hesitated. I didn’t even know how to ask him to shift. So, I just stood. Then he reached over and took off my glasses.

“These glasses are actually cool,” he said, sliding them on his face.

I blinked. “No. Nooo. They’re medicated!” I gasped, panicking. “You don’t play with them!”

He rolled his eyes in surrender, then gently placed them back on my face. His fingertips brushed my cheek. “They suit you.”

My heart skipped. Our eyes locked—and neither of us looked away. It was a still, quiet moment. Like the world had paused, and only the both of us existed.

Only then did I realize... I was standing in between his legs. It must’ve happened when I fell earlier. And now, I was close—too close. I felt his pinky finger brush the side of my skirt, lightly teasing the zip. I was very sure he came up to my waist.

My whole body tensed. This can’t be happening. Daaja, you’re losing yourself. He’s not the one. He’s not the good guy you dreamed of. He smokes, he's popular, and he has girls lined up for him like a concert ticket queue. You’re not his type. You’re the poor girl with the old glasses and no holidays. Just a leftover pancake no one wants.

I blinked hard.

“No, I think I should go now,” I said quickly, stepping back. “Miss Elizabeth’s probably waiting for me at the library.”

“Just like that?”

“Yh. Thanks for your time, though.”

He smiled, almost knowingly. As I walked off, something pulled me to turn back.

“Alaric!” I called.

He turned, another cigarette already dangling from his lips.

“Thanks,” I said, voice a bit steadier, “for changing the way I saw you.”

He grinned. “No, noooo—don’t. I’m still the same. If we meet outside, I’ll still snub you.”

I laughed. He looked so cute when he smiled. He never even asked what my problem was, but somehow… he fixed it. Still, I couldn’t date a bad boy.

“Then I take my compliment back,” I teased.

“Thank you,” he said with a wink.

We both laughed. And then I walked out, the dusty school path crunching under my feet.