Forgive me, if you can

Like She Never Left

>

The silence stretched uncomfortable.

Like the entire house had forgotten how to breathe.

Mum stood still.

Her expression was unreadable.

Not anger.

Not shock.

Aunty Tracy stood halfway down the staircase, one hand resting casually against the polished railings like she had all the time in the world.

I looked from Mum’s face to Tracy’s.

Then back again.

Watching.

Trying to figure out what exactly was about to happen.

Because this wasn’t the dramatic confrontation I expected.

No shouting.

No, “What are you doing here?”

No emotional Nigerian movie background music.

The head chef, Mrs. Bose, a woman in her early forties who had practically watched me grow up paused in the middle of arranging extra plates on the dining table.

Her hands stopped.

The silence dragged.Then to my complete shock, mum adjusted her handbag.

Walked forward.

Past Tracy.

Without saying a word.

Without even looking at her twice.

And headed upstairs.

Just like that.

I blinked.

Wait.

What?

That was it?

No fight?

No drama?

Nothing?

The sound of Mum’s heels echoed softly against the staircase as she disappeared upstairs.

Aunty Tracy remained standing there for a second.

Then, quietly, almost under her breath, she hissed in frustration.

“Seriously?”

Her jaw tightened briefly before she turned and walked toward the dining area instead.

Like being ignored somehow offended her more than yelling would have. Honestly, because now I was confused.

Very confused.

I looked upstairs.

Then back at Tracy.

Then upstairs again.

Something felt wrong and that scared me.

Because one thing about my mother is that silence usually meant danger.

The loud reactions came later.

Slowly, I pushed my chair back.

I hadn’t even finished eating. Food felt very unimportant.

“Zara, you never chop your food finish ,” Mrs. Bose called out immediately, concern thick in her voice.

Her hands rested against her waist now, brows pulled together.

I smiled weakly.

“I’m done.”

“You sure?” she asked. “At least drink your smoothie.”

I shook my head.

“No appetite.”

Mrs. Bose sighed softly like she had seen this movie before.

Truthfully, she had been here almost my whole life, long enough to know when something inside the house felt off. I turned briefly toward Tracy.

She had already settled comfortably into one of the dining chairs, helping herself to food completely unbothered.

Honestly, the confidence was concerning.

She caught me staring.

“What?” she asked casually, spoon halfway to her mouth.

“You’re eating?”

She frowned dramatically.

“Stress burns calories.”

I almost laughed despite myself.

Then she waved me off.

“Go ahead, dear,” she said casually. “I know exactly where you’re going.”

And somehow that made me even more nervous.

Because she was right.

The hallway suddenly felt quieter.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that usually meant danger in our house.

I climbed the staircase slowly, my thoughts running faster than my legs.

Because something about Mum walking away without saying a word to Aunty Tracy felt… wrong.

By the time I reached the second floor, the familiar luxury of the private wing wrapped around me again.

The hallway stretched elegantly beneath warm lighting, polished marble floors reflecting soft gold from expensive chandeliers overhead. Family portraits lined sections of the walls with carefully selected moments frozen into expensive frames. Among them was a carefully photographed version of me .

At the far end stood my parents’ private suite.

The doors alone looked intimidating.

Tall detailed with sleek gold finish that somehow looked both expensive and cold. The automatic sensor lights around the frame glowed softly beneath the ceiling.

On days mum worked from home or buried herself in business calls, she hardly stayed inside the actual bedroom.

Instead, she preferred the private sitting area positioned between her room and Dad’s.

A luxurious shared lounge designed only for them.

Well, mostly them.

Sometimes me.

If Dad happened to be around.

The sitting room sat at the center like a private sanctuary, cream velvet couches, oversized abstract art, expensive indoor plants no one dared forget to water, and a floor-to-ceiling glass view overlooking parts of Ikoyi.

Mum usually sat there for hours handling business conversations.

Laptop open.

The fact that she had gone straight into her bedroom instead?

That alone told me exactly how annoyed or angry she was.

I stopped outside the door.

For a second, I hesitated.

Then I softly tapped.

Once.

Twice.

Normally, Mum would say something.

"Come in".

"Give me a minute".

"Zara, not now."

Slowly, I pushed the door open.

The room greeted me with stillness.

Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, sunlight slipping through sheer golden curtains. The room smelled faintly of expensive perfume and fresh linen.

Perfectly arranged.

Then I saw her.

Mum stood near the large glass window.

Her back faced me.

She looked smaller.

“Mum?” I called softly.

No answer.

I stepped closer.

Unsure.

“You okay?

Mum let out a long, controlled sigh.

Then she removed her earring slowly, almost deliberately, like she needed her hands to do something, so her emotions wouldn’t take over completely.

She didn’t turn immediately.

Instead, she moved toward the single couch positioned near the wide glass window that opened up to the private veranda view. The kind of spot she usually avoided unless she wanted silence… or control.

She sat down.

She wasn’t calm.

She was holding something back.

And that alone told me everything I needed to know.

“Mum…” I called again, softer this time.

No response.

Only the faint sound of the city outside pressing against the glass.

I stepped in carefully, like the room itself might react if I moved too fast.

“Are you okay?”

That did it.

A pause.

A long one.

Then she finally spoke, her voice low, carefully measured.

“Zara, go to your room.”

It wasn’t harsh.

But it was final.

I should’ve stopped there.

I should’ve turned and walked away like I always did when she used that tone.

But I didn’t.

Instead, the words slipped out before I could stop them.

“Mum… I know you had things rough with Aunty Tracy.”

The second I said it, I regretted it.

Her head tilted slightly.

Not toward me.

Still facing away.

Then she gave a short, humorless chuckle.

“Rough?” she repeated quietly.

I swallowed.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, finally leaning back into the couch.

And when she spoke again, her voice had changed.

Not louder.

Just heavier.

“Yes… I know she is my sister. Even if we parted on bad terms… even if she didn’t think it was important to stay in touch for over two years.”

She paused.

Her fingers pressed against her temple like she was trying to hold her thoughts in place.

Then she shook her head slightly.

“I am not angry, Zara.”

A short laugh escaped her again, but this one didn’t carry any humour at all.

“No… I’m not angry.”

Another pause.

Then the truth finally cracked through.

“Your aunt Tracy wasn’t even abroad like she said.”

I froze.

My brain refused to process it at first.

“What?” I whispered.

Mum turned her face slightly now, just enough for me to see her expression tightening.

“She was in Abuja.”

Silence.

“That entire time,” she continued, her voice tightening with each word, “she was in Nigeria. Doing God-knows-what. And I… I was here believing she was building a life abroad.”

My mouth went dry.

No.

That didn’t make sense.

“Aunty Tracy?” I said again, slower this time, like saying it differently would make it less real.

Mum finally looked at me.

Properly this time.

Her eyes, disappointed in a way that had nothing to do with me but somehow still felt heavy on me anyway.

“Yes, Zara,” she said quietly. “Your aunt Tracy.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.

“I am her sister. I was always here. If she needed space, she could have said it. If she needed distance, she could have said it. But she chose silence.”

Her voice cracked just a little on the last word.

Silence.

That word lingered in the room longer than anything else.

I stepped forward without thinking.

My legs moved before my mind could argue.

“Mum…” I whispered, reaching her.

She didn’t pull away when I held her hand.

But she closed her eyes.

Like she was trying not to break.

“I kept waiting,” she said softly. “Waiting for a call. A message. Anything. But nothing came.”

Her breath trembled slightly.

“I even convinced myself maybe she was busy. Maybe she was building something. Maybe she would explain later.”

A small bitter smile appeared on her lips.

“But later never came.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I did the only thing I could.

I hugged her.

Tightly.

Like if I held on long enough, I could somehow take the weight off her chest and carry it instead.

She stayed still for a moment.

Then slowly, her hand moved to my back.

Not gripping.

Just resting there.

I pulled back slightly.

“No,” I said quickly. “Mum, you trusted her. That’s not wrong.”

Her eyes softened for a second.

Then she kissed my cheek gently.

A soft, almost apologetic kiss.

“Go, darling,” she said quietly. “I need a moment.”

This time, I didn’t argue.

I nodded.

And I left.

The next morning, I woke up to rain.

Not the loud kind that crashes against the roof like anger.

But the soft, fading kind… like the storm was already tired of itself.

A grey light slipped through my curtains, thin and gentle. I had left the window slightly open overnight just enough for the cold air to creep in and brush across my face.

I needed it.

Not the artificial chill of the AC.

Real air.

I yawned, stretching slowly, feeling the weight of sleep still clinging to my bones. For a moment, I just stood there, watching the atmosphere outside my window.

The rain blurred the world into something almost poetic, cars moving like faint shadows, trees bending softly, droplets tracing slow paths down the gass.

I stepped closer to the window, resting my fingers lightly against the cool glass.

The atmosphere after rain.

That deep, washed silence in the air. The way everything looked sharper and softer at the same time.The scent of rain hung the atmosphere.

I stared at it for a moment longer… then quietly pulled the curtain shut.

I moved away, rubbing my arms lightly as the cold followed me back into the room.

Routine took over.

Bathroom.

Water.

Steam.

Familiar motions that didn’t require thought.

I took my bath properly this time,no rushing and after that, I got dressed in my school uniform, smoothing out the fabric like it could fix my mood along with it.

A light touch of makeup.

Nothing dramatic.

Just enough to look like I had slept properly, even though my mind still felt slightly scattered.

I glanced at my study table on my way out.

My textbook was still open from last night.

Left exactly where I abandoned it.

The lamp was still on too.

I remember sitting there, trying to focus… but my thoughts kept drifting back upstairs.

To Mum.

To Aunty Tracy.

Eventually, I gave up and went to bed without even switching off the light.

Now, in the morning, it looked like a frozen moment of last night’s confusion.

I picked up the book anyway.

I left my room and headed downstairs for breakfast as i stepped into the elevator and descended slowly, i heard a sharp piercing cry.

Not loud like shouting.

But emotional.

I froze.