PIECE OF ME

THE THINGS THAT BREAKS QUIETLY

CHAPTER 2

The first text came the morning after I buried myself under my pillow, trying to mute the noise of relatives fighting downstairs about who had the right to sit closest to my father’s coffin.

It was a strange number.

“You think you know grief? Wait until you see what’s coming.”

I stared at the words until the phone dimmed itself, my chest tightening. I almost convinced myself it was some kind of prank. Maybe a spam message. But something about it felt personal, like whoever sent it wasn’t guessing — they knew.

I locked my phone, slid it under the pillow, and told myself I wouldn’t answer. I had enough weight on my neck already.

Downstairs, voices rose and fell like waves in a storm. One of my uncles accused my mother’s people of “taking over arrangements,” even though my mother was dead and buried years ago. Another relative shouted about money that had “gone missing” from the funeral contribution box. A cousin cried about being disrespected.

My father’s body was lying in the mortuary, cold and silent, and these people were more alive than they had ever been. Their voices were knives. Their arguments tasted like acid.

And me? I was invisible. I sat on the staircase landing, knees pulled into my chest, waiting for silence that never came.

By noon, my phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t the strange number. It was the hospital.

I froze.

The doctor had already called twice since my last visit. He said the same thing both times: “Miss Monwon, this is a complicated case. Please, you need to come with a family member or your husband. It’s important.”

But what family was I supposed to bring? The ones fighting over chairs and envelopes? The ones who hadn’t even looked me in the eye since my father’s death?

And Daniel? Forget it.

I let the call ring out and pressed the phone against my chest, as if that would silence the panic building inside me.

Later that evening, I tried calling Daniel anyway. I told myself maybe if I used the right words, maybe if I kept my voice calm, he would finally understand the doctor’s urgency.

He picked up on the second ring, his voice flat.

“Uche, what is it again?”

I swallowed hard. “Daniel… the doctor said it’s complicated. He said I should come with you or—”

He cut me off with a sharp laugh. Not the kind that carried humor. The kind that sounded like disgust.

“Uche, how many times will I say this? Whatever you’re carrying, it’s not mine. I’ve been taking supplements for months. Do you understand? Supplements that literally kill sperm. What part of that don’t you get?”

“Daniel, it’s four months… twins…” My voice cracked. “Please, don’t make this harder. Just… please listen.”

“I’ve heard enough. Don’t drag me into your mess. Handle it yourself.”

And then he hung up.

I stared at the screen until it blurred. My fingers felt heavy, my throat dry.

For a moment, I thought about smashing the phone against the wall. Instead, I placed it gently on the table and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.

I was already broken enough.

The money alert came thirty minutes later.

₦5,000. The narration read: “Feeding.”

I wanted to laugh. It was so absurd I almost choked. After weeks of silence, denial, and humiliation, he sent me ₦5,000 like it could erase everything. Like it was a consolation prize for losing both my father and his love.

I didn’t call. I didn’t text. I just sat there, my chest hollow, my body numb.

The call came an hour later.

“Uche,” Daniel’s voice snapped through the speaker. “So you can’t even say thank you? I sent you money. Is that how ungrateful you are?”

My silence made him angrier.

“See, you’ll regret this attitude one day. Don’t think you can guilt-trip me with your stories. I don’t owe you anything. Nothing.”

Then he cut the line.

I sat in that silence for a long time. No tears. No screams. Just silence. Sometimes silence was louder than noise.

The cramps started the next morning.

Sharp, stabbing pains low in my abdomen. Not constant — just sudden enough to make me double over, clutching my stomach, holding my breath until it eased.

I knew what the doctor would say if I told him. I knew he would insist I bring someone, because this wasn’t something I could walk through alone. But I had no one.

So I stayed quiet.

When my aunt barged into my room, demanding I help serve drinks to the visitors who had come for condolence, I straightened myself and followed her downstairs like nothing was wrong.

I smiled when they said, “Be strong, my dear.”

I nodded when they said, “You’re your father’s only child now. Carry yourself well.”

I smiled. I nodded. I carried trays of malt and water while my insides twisted like broken glass.

By nightfall, I collapsed on my bed, pressing both hands to my stomach. My phone buzzed on the table.

I thought it would be Daniel again. Maybe another insult. Maybe another ₦5,000.

But it wasn’t.

It was the strange number. Again.

“Blood and secrets travel together. Haven’t you noticed the pattern yet?”

I sat up so fast my head spun.

I read the words three times. My skin went cold.

Blood.

Secrets.

Pattern.

I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand.

But one thing was certain: whoever was sending these messages wasn’t guessing. They knew something about me, about my family. About this pregnancy.

I dropped the phone back on the bed like it was hot coal.

And for the first time since my father’s death, real fear settled into my bones.

The phone buzzed again before I could look away. Another message.

“Your father’s death wasn’t the beginning. And if you keep ignoring me, you’ll bleed out before you ever learn the truth.”

I froze, staring at the screen, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst.