COVENANT OF ASHES

THE NDABOOK 5CHAPTER 12: FIVE YEARS LATER

CHAPTER 12: FIVE YEARS LATER

Miriam was 5 today.

She had Kael’s eyes and my stubbornness.

And she was currently trying to baptize the dog in the kiddie pool.

“Miriam Okafor-Ashford,” I said. “Put the hose down.”

She looked at me, soaked, and grinned. “But Mama, he needed Jesus.”

Kael walked out with cake in his hands and heard the last part.

He started laughing. Couldn’t stop.

“Your daughter,” he said to me. “She’s going to be a pastor or a problem.”

“Both,” Victoria said from the porch. “Just like her father.”

It was a small party.

Just family.

Chiamaka and her husband. Tunde and his wife. Father Joseph.

And Grace.

Grace was 17 now. Tall. Smart. She was starting at the Miriam Okafor School in September. Full scholarship.

She hugged me when she got here.

“Happy birthday, little boss,” she said to Miriam.

Miriam gave her a cupcake. “You’re my favorite auntie.”

Grace looked at me. Eyes wet.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”

I squeezed her hand.

After cake and chaos, Kael and I put Miriam to bed.

She made us pray with her.

“God,” she said, hands folded. “Thank You for Mama and Daddy. Thank You for the school. Thank You for the dog. And please don’t let him eat the cake tomorrow. Amen.”

Kael and I looked at each other and lost it.

We walked out to the deck.

The ocean was quiet tonight.

Kael handed me tea.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Tired,” I said. “Happy. Full.”

He nodded. “Same.”

We sat in silence.

“You ever think about it?” I asked. “Day 1? The hospital?”

“Every day,” Kael said. “I think about a scared girl who signed a paper to save her sister. And I think about how God used that.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder.

“Do you regret any of it?” I asked.

Kael was quiet.

“I regret lying,” he said. “I regret the years I wasted running. I regret that you had to bleed for my family’s sins.”

He kissed the top of my head.

“But I don’t regret you,” he said. “Not one second.”

My phone buzzed.

Email.

From the board.

Ashford Holdings Q3 Report: 22 new clinics opened. 0 scandals.

I showed Kael.

He smiled. “We did that.”

“We did,” I said.

A car pulled up down the drive.

Tunde got out.

He didn’t look worried. He looked... excited.

“Boss,” he said to Kael. “You need to see this.”

“What?” Kael asked.

“There’s a package,” Tunde said. “At the gate. No sender. But it’s addressed to Miriam.”

Kael stood up immediately.

We walked to the gate.

A small wooden box.

Engraved:

For Miriam Ashford

On her 5th Birthday

From Grandpa

Kael opened it carefully.

Inside:

1. A children’s Bible. Old.

2. A necklace. Small gold cross.

3. A letter.

Kael read it first.

My dearest Miriam,

If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. And your parents did good.

I never got to meet you. But I prayed for you. Every day.

This Bible was your grandmother’s.

This cross was mine.

Wear it. Read it. Remember that you come from people who fought for what was right.

I’m proud of you already.

Love,

Grandpa

Kael’s hands were shaking.

“My dad,” he whispered. “He wrote this. Before he died.”

Victoria came up behind us. Saw the letter.

And broke down.

I held her.

Kael held the Bible.

Miriam came running out in her pajamas. “What is it?”

Kael knelt down.

“Baby,” he said. “This is from your grandpa.”

He showed her the cross.

“Do you want to wear it?”

Miriam nodded.

Kael put it around her neck.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Later, after everyone left, Kael and I sat in the nursery.

Miriam asleep between us.

“I thought I’d buried all of this,” Kael said. “My dad. Elias. The land.”

“You didn’t bury it,” I said. “You redeemed it.”

He looked at me. “Because of you.”

“No,” I said. “Because of God. And because of a paper signed seven years ago.”

Kael laughed. “The worst contract ever. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

We sat there until midnight.

At 12:01am, my phone buzzed.

Bank alert.

Donation received: $5,000,000

From: Anonymous

Note: For the school. For Grace. For Miriam.

— A Friend of the Covenant

Kael saw it too.

“Anonymous,” he said.

“God,” I said.

Kael nodded.

The next morning, we took Miriam to the school.

She ran straight to her classroom.

“Bye Mama! Bye Daddy!”

We watched her go.

Kael put his arm around me.

“Ninety days,” he said.

“Turned into a lifetime,” I said.

“And then some,” he said.

As we drove away, I looked back at the sign.

THE MIRIAM OKAFOR SCHOOL FOR GIRLS

Under it, someone had added new words in chalk.

By Miriam herself probably.

“God grows flowers here.”

Kael saw it too.

He pulled over.

Got out.

Took my hand.

We stood there.

Husband and wife.

Father and mother.

Two people who started with a contract and ended with a covenant.

“Thank You,” Kael whispered. Not to me. To God.

“Amen,” I said.

The sun was up.

The day was new.

And for the first time since day 1,

there were no deadlines.

No threats.

No clauses.

Just us.

Just grace.

Just the flowers growing in the ash.

THE END.