MY JOURNEY TO BECOMING WHOLE

THE ROSE I DIDN’T ASK FOR

I told myself I’d be open to it this time.

That maybe I could let a man admire me, shoot his shot, and see where it went. That I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life building walls because one man decided my worth was tied to his mood.

It sounded easy in my head.

It wasn’t.

The first guy that tried was during my lunch break on day four. He walked in wearing a fake designer shirt, smelling of cheap cologne, and leaned on the counter like he owned the place.

“Hey, fine girl. What’s your name?”

I didn’t look up from wiping the table.

“Lilian.”

“Ah, Lilian. Beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Can I take you out after work?”

I finally looked at him. Really looked. His eyes weren’t on my face. They were scanning me like I was on a menu.

“No,” I said, and went back to work.

He tried again the next day. And the next.

By day three I started taking my breaks in the back, where the smell of burnt oil and detergent was better than his attitude.

That was the pattern. Every man that came near me made my skin crawl. The ones who strutted in with polished shoes and rehearsed lines, thinking their looks alone would make me melt. I wasn’t that girl anymore. Not after everything. Not after being called useless, after being hit, after having to choose between my daughter’s safety and my own pride.

So I stopped looking.

At the eatery, work was all I could think about. I moved fast, kept my head down, and tried not to owe anyone anything. If I focused on the orders, the trays, the way the floor needed mopping twice a day, I didn’t have space to think about my ex, or my daughter asleep at my mom’s, or the school fees due next month.

Work was clean. Work made sense.

I didn’t notice him at first.

Clinton.

He was quiet. Always the first to arrive, wiping down tables before the manager even unlocked the door. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t joke with the other guys like they did during downtime. He just worked. And he worked like he was angry at the world, but not at me.

I noticed the little things before I noticed him.

Like how he’d take the heavy pots off my hands without asking.

“Sit down, Lilian,” he’d say, sliding a plate of food in front of me. “You’ll eat first.”

I’d shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been on your feet since 7 AM.”

At first I thought he was just being polite. The kind of politeness that dies after two weeks.

But the food kept coming. Every shift. Every day.

Rice and stew on Monday. Yam and egg sauce on Tuesday. Even when I told him I wasn’t hungry, he’d leave it there. “Eat it later,” he’d say. “You’ll need the strength.”

It saved me money I didn’t have.

It meant I could send ₦3,000 to my mom without skipping a meal. It meant my daughter could have milk this week.

Still, I didn’t let myself think about why he was doing it.

If I started thinking about that, I’d have to think about the fact that someone was being kind to me without expecting anything in return. And that felt dangerous.

Two weeks in, Lydia, my colleague, pulled me aside during break. She worked the register and had a mouth that never stopped unless she was eating.

“Lilian, do you not see that Clinton cares about you? Or are you pretending not to?”

I stared at her like she’d grown two heads.

“Lydia, are you high on cheap drugs? What makes you say that?”

She crossed her arms, serious now.

“Hold on… is it because of the food? Or because he helps you? He doesn’t do that for anyone else. Not even me, and I’ve been here longer than you.”

I laughed, but it came out short and sharp.

“Please stop it. If a guy really loves you, he’ll say it himself. He won’t hide behind plates of rice.”

Lydia sighed, shaking her head.

“Lilian, not all guys have the courage to speak up. Some of them show it first, hoping you’ll notice. Can we change the topic before you start cursing me?”

I let it go.

But I couldn’t stop noticing after that.

The way his eyes followed me when I carried a tray.

The way he’d step in front of me if a customer was being too loud, too close.

The way he never asked for anything back.

I told myself it was nothing.

Until two weeks later, when my shift was ending and I was exhausted in that bone-deep way that only comes from standing for 10 hours.

I was walking to the back to clock out when I heard my name.

“Lilian…”

The voice was soft, almost hesitant.

I turned around.

Clinton stood there, holding a single rose. It wasn’t even fresh. The edges were a little brown, like he’d bought it that morning and carried it around all day, waiting for the right moment.

My first reaction was to laugh.

Not because it was funny. Because it was too much. Too sudden. Too much like every other time a man thought a gesture would erase the fact that he didn’t know me.

“Do you even know what you’re saying?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

“I love you, Lilian.”

I exhaled through my nose.

“Do you even know what you’re saying? I’m a single mother with baggage. I have a daughter I haven’t seen in three days because I’m working double shifts. I have wounds that haven’t healed, and I’m not in the mood to pretend they don’t exist.”

“Loving me will mess you up. I still carry the weight of my past.”

He didn’t step back. He stepped closer, but not too close. Like he was afraid I’d run.

“Lily… let me help you heal from it.”

Hearing him say my name like that, short and soft, made something in my chest ache.

I hadn’t been called Lily since before my daughter was born.

I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

“You can’t.”

He shook his head.

“Give me a chance. Let me show you that not every man is like the one before. Let me love you the way you deserve.”

The word love hit me like a slap.

I hissed and sighed, crossing my arms.

“With what? The peanut they pay us here? Clinton, be realistic. Love doesn’t pay school fees. Love doesn’t buy diapers. Love doesn’t stop a man from raising his hand.”

“You must be joking.”

His face fell, just a little.

“I know I don’t have much. But I have my hands. I have my time. I have my heart. And I’m willing to give all of it to you if you let me.”

I stared at him.

Really stared.

He wasn’t wearing designer clothes. His shirt was wrinkled, his shoes were scuffed. He wasn’t trying to impress me with looks. He was just… there. Standing in the back of an eatery, holding a dying rose, asking for a chance.

It should have been sweet.

It made me angry.

Because I was tired.

Tired of being the strong one.

Tired of men showing up with empty promises and expecting me to clap.

Tired of the word love being thrown around like it meant nothing.

I wasn’t ready for that.

I wasn’t ready for him.

So I did what I always did when things got too close.

I ran.

“Don’t,” I said, stepping back.

“Don’t say that again. Don’t look at me like that.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I was already walking away.

From that day, I avoided him.

Every shift. Every break. Every chance I got.

If he was on the floor, I stayed in the kitchen. If he was in the kitchen, I took out the trash. I clocked in late and left early. I pretended I didn’t see the way his shoulders dropped every time I walked past him.

Lydia noticed.

“You’re being childish,” she said one day.

“I’m being careful,” I replied.

“Careful or scared?”

I didn’t answer.

At night, when I lay in bed at my mom’s house, I’d think about it.

About the way he said my name.

About the way he never asked me to smile or act grateful. He just gave.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because if I let myself believe that someone could love me without wanting to control me, without wanting to break me…

What would I do if I was wrong again?

I couldn’t afford to be wrong again.

Not for my sake.

For my daughter’s sake.

So I kept avoiding him.

I told myself it was for the best.

But every time I saw that empty spot where he usually stood, my chest felt heavier.

He didn’t stop leaving food for me.

Even when I didn’t eat it, it was there. Warm, covered, waiting.

And every time I saw it, I wondered if I was making a mistake.

If maybe, just maybe, this was different.

But I wasn’t ready to find out.

Not yet.

So I kept running.

And he kept holding that rose.

Even if it was dying.