YURI

CHAPTER THREE

Neither Kendall nor Paul showed up. I guess they were busy, but deep down, I’ve always known neither of them really accepted me as their sister. We shared a last name, but not much else.

The only one who was ever truly kind to me was Daniel. He had this way of making me feel like I belonged — like I wasn’t just an afterthought in someone else’s family. He was the sweetest, always remembering the little things that mattered to me. But he died ten years ago, and nothing has felt quite the same since.

I knew he had a son — older than me by about nine years, if I remember right — but I haven’t seen him since the funeral. Back then, he barely spoke a word, just stood there in the rain with his hands shoved in his pockets, his face unreadable. Sometimes I wonder if I’d even recognize him now… or if he’d recognize me.

He and his mom moved back to Australia — I guess that’s where she’s from. That’s where she first met Daniel, back when he was there for business. They fell in love quickly, the kind of whirlwind romance people always say never lasts, but theirs did. Daniel ended up moving there to be with her, and not long after, Killian was born.

After Daniel died, Kirby found out she was pregnant again. That’s when Danielle came into the world — a bittersweet reminder of the man she’d lost.

The last time Kirby came to visit, she mentioned that Killian now lives in New York. She also let it slip that she’s thinking about relocating to the States herself. Mom’s face lit up at the news, her joy barely contained — she’s always had a soft spot for Kirby, and I think the thought of having her and the kids closer to home made her feel like a little piece of Daniel would be near again.

After that beautiful party thrown by my mom, my girls and I decided the night was still young—too young to end—so we hit a club downtown.

The place was buzzing with neon lights, laughter, and the low hum of bass vibrating through the floor. We squeezed our way to the bar, the smell of citrus and liquor already mixing in the air. Catching the bartender’s attention, we grinned and ordered a round of tequila shots.

The glasses hit the counter with a satisfying clink. We lifted them in a mock toast, downed the shots in one go, and slammed them back down—faces scrunching at the burn.

Just then, the DJ switched tracks, and the familiar opening of Rock by Nigerian artist Olamide pulsed through the speakers. My heart skipped a beat. I’d always had this thing for African music—especially Nigerian songs. Maybe it was the rhythm, maybe it was the energy… or maybe it had something to do with the color of my skin, like it was a sound that felt like home. Or maybe… it was just my preference, plain and simple.

Either way, I was already moving before I realized it—hips swaying, head nodding, my girls laughing and joining in as the beat swallowed us whole.