CHAPTER EIGHT:LEARNING TO LOVE
786 Words
The evening was unusually quiet.
Chioma stood by the doorway, her fingers resting lightly against the wooden frame, as though she needed its support to remain standing. The house, though small, felt unfamiliar to her now like a place she had lived in all her life but never truly seen.
Adaeze sat on the floor in the corner of the room, her back against the wall, carefully arranging her schoolbooks. Every movement was precise, cautious… practiced. She did not hum. She did not speak. She simply existed quietly, like someone who had learned not to take up space.
Chioma watched her for a long time.
There was something unsettling about the silence. It was not peace. It was not comfort.
It was distance.
A distance Chioma had created with her own hands.
“Adaeze,” she called.
The girl froze for a brief second before turning. “Yes, Mummy.”
Her voice was soft, measured. Careful.
Always careful.
“Come here.”
Adaeze hesitated, just for a moment, before rising to her feet. She walked slowly, her eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, as though looking directly at her mother might be a mistake.
Chioma felt something twist painfully in her chest.
When did my child start being afraid of me?
Adaeze stopped at a safe distance, her small hands clasped together.
“Yes, Mummy?”
Chioma opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. For years, her voice had only known how to command, to scold, to lash out. Now that she needed it to do something different, it failed her.
She swallowed hard.
“Come… closer.”
Adaeze obeyed, though her steps were hesitant.
Chioma noticed everything now the slight flinch when she moved too quickly, the tension in her shoulders, the way her breathing seemed to pause, as if waiting for something bad to happen.
It broke something inside her.
Slowly, almost uncertainly, Chioma reached out and placed her hand on Adaeze’s shoulder.
The girl stiffened.
That single reaction hit harder than any words ever could.
“I…” Chioma’s voice trembled. She wasn’t used to that. She wasn’t used to feeling exposed. “Adaeze, look at me.”
Reluctantly, the girl lifted her gaze.
Their eyes met.
For the first time in a long time, Chioma truly looked at her daughter not as a burden, not as a mistake, but as a child. Her child.
And what she saw there was not anger.
Not even sadness.
Just… distance.
A quiet, empty distance that spoke of years of holding back tears.
“I’m sorry.”
The words slipped out, fragile and unfamiliar.
Adaeze blinked.
She didn’t respond. She simply stared, as if trying to understand what she had just heard.
“I’m sorry,” Chioma repeated, her voice breaking now. “For shouting at you. For… for hurting you.”
Silence filled the space between them.
Adaeze’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Chioma felt tears sting her eyes. “I didn’t know how to be your mother,” she admitted. “I was angry… not at you, but at everything that happened. And I took it out on you.”
Her hand tightened gently on Adaeze’s shoulder, this time not in anger, but in something softer. Something unfamiliar.
“I should have protected you. Instead… I made you afraid.”
A tear slipped down Adaeze’s cheek.
She quickly wiped it away, as if she wasn’t allowed to cry.
That, more than anything, shattered Chioma completely.
“You can cry,” Chioma whispered. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
Adaeze shook her head slightly, her voice barely audible. “It’s okay, Mummy.”
No.
It wasn’t okay.
And for the first time, Chioma understood the depth of what she had done.
She pulled Adaeze gently into an embrace.
At first, the girl remained stiff, unsure, her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides. It was clear this was not something she was used to.
But Chioma did not let go.
“I will try,” she said softly, her voice firm despite the tears. “I may not get it right immediately… but I will try to be better. For you.”
Slowly—very slowly—Adaeze’s arms lifted.
She held onto her mother.
Not tightly.
Not fully.
But it was a beginning.
Outside, the evening breeze slipped through the window, carrying with it a quiet calm. The kind that doesn’t erase the past, but makes space for something new.
Something softer.
Something hopeful.
And in that small, quiet house, for the first time, love did not feel like a burden.
It felt like a choice.
One they were both, finally, ready to make.
- Writer
