Chapter Five - Six Years Later
1394 Words
Six years changed everything.
And nothing.
Amara still woke before sunrise.
She still counted every naira before spending it. She still worked too hard and slept too little. The difference was that life no longer felt like survival alone.
It felt like something she had built.
Ibadan had been kind to her in quiet ways. Not easy, but kind.
Her aunt Ada had given her a room when she first arrived, asked very few questions, and never once made her feel like a burden. That first year had been difficult. She had taken sewing jobs, event decorations, and small design commissions from anyone willing to pay.
Now she had her own place.
Small. Bright. Clean.
And hers.
The front room had become her studio. Rolls of fabric lined one wall. Sketchbooks were stacked on the shelf beside jars of pins, measuring tape, and pencils. On good weeks, customers came through referrals. On bad weeks, she reminded herself how far she had already come.
Her daughter, Maya, was four now.
Sharp-eyed. Curious. Quiet until she had something important to say.
Ethan was twelve.
Tall for his age. Thoughtful. Still observant in the way that often unsettled her.
That morning he sat at the table in his school uniform, eating bread while pretending not to watch her.
“You’re staring,” Amara said.
“So are you.”
“I’m your mother. I’m allowed.”
He looked offended.
“That feels unfair.”
Maya giggled.
Amara slid a lunchbox across the table.
“Eat faster or you’ll both be late.”
Ethan obeyed for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.
“Mum?”
“Hm?”
“Can I ask something?”
Her hands paused over the fabric she was folding.
“You just did.”
He ignored that.
“Who’s my father?”
The room went still.
Even Maya looked up.
For a second Amara thought she had heard wrong.
She had known this day would come.
She just had not expected it to arrive so quietly.
“Why are you asking now?” she said.
He shrugged, but too carefully.
“Everyone talks.”
“At school?”
He nodded.
“What do they say?”
“That people should know their fathers.”
His voice stayed calm, but she saw the tension in his shoulders.
She crossed the room and sat opposite him.
“You know you are loved.”
“I know.”
“You know I’ve always been honest with you.”
He nodded again.
“Then be honest now.”
Her chest tightened.
“There are some things you’re still too young to understand.”
“That means you don’t want to tell me.”
“No. It means I want to tell you properly.”
His eyes dropped to the table.
“Does he know me?”
The question landed harder than the first.
She swallowed.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I disappeared.
Because I was afraid.
Because I chose safety over answers.
Because his world nearly destroyed ours.
She could not say any of that.
“It was complicated.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Was he a bad man?”
Her mind flashed unexpectedly to rain, a warehouse, a terrified night, and a man who had walked into danger without hesitation when Ethan had been taken.
“No,” she said softly. “He wasn’t a bad man.”
“Then why did he leave?”
That one hurt.
She reached for his hand.
“He didn’t leave you. He never knew.”
Ethan looked at her carefully.
He was old enough now to hear what was not being said.
But for once he did not press.
“Okay,” he said.
The word was small, but it carried disappointment.
He stood, picked up his bag, and kissed Maya’s forehead.
“Come on. We’re late.”
After the door closed behind them, Amara stayed where she was.
Her throat felt tight.
“You should have told him sooner,” Aunt Ada said quietly from the kitchen doorway.
Amara looked up.
“I know.”
“He’s growing.”
“I know.”
“And children always feel silence.”
That was true.
Too true.
Work saved her that day.
A bride wanted alterations. A hotel manager needed table runners for an event. Two university girls argued over fabric shades in the studio for twenty minutes before buying nothing.
By afternoon she had almost stopped thinking about Ethan’s questions.
Almost.
She was closing up when her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She nearly ignored it.
“Hello?”
“Is this Amara Okafor?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Kemi. I’m calling from Vale Group.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
For a second she said nothing.
“Hello, madam?”
“Yes,” Amara managed.
“We recently came across your design portfolio through a recommendation. Vale Group is hosting a private anniversary event in Lagos next month. We’d like to invite selected independent designers to present proposals.”
The street noise around her seemed to fade.
Lagos.
Vale Group.
The name hit her like cold water.
“There must be some mistake,” she said.
“No mistake. Your work was highly recommended.”
Amara forced her voice steady.
“I’m not based in Lagos anymore.”
“That’s fine. Travel and accommodation will be covered.”
Her pulse had begun to climb.
“I’ll need time to think.”
“Of course. We’ll send the details by email.”
The call ended.
She stood there without moving.
Vale Group.
Six years, and the name still carried the same weight.
Not because of the company.
Because she still remembered the last time she had seen Damien.
Rain falling softly.
A promise to stay away for her safety.
And a goodbye that neither of them had known would last years.
She told herself it meant nothing.
A company invitation. Professional. Coincidence.
But deep down, something had already shifted.
That evening Ethan was quieter than usual.
He finished his homework, ate dinner, and disappeared to the small veranda with a book.
Amara found him there.
“Still upset?” she asked.
“No.”
“That sounded like yes.”
He looked out into the street.
“Will you ever tell me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When I can do it honestly.”
He thought about that.
“Do you still think about him?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Sometimes.”
“What do you think?”
She looked at the fading evening light.
“That life can change because of one person.”
He nodded slowly, as though filing the answer away for later.
Then he said, “Maya asked if I have the same father as her.”
Amara blinked.
“And what did you tell her?”
“That she asks too many questions.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
“There’s my boy.”
He smiled faintly.
Then his eyes sharpened.
“You’re worried.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“To me.”
That startled her.
He had said something so much like Damien that for a second she could not breathe.
She stood and touched his hair.
“Go inside. It’s getting dark.”
He did.
But the unease remained.
Later that night, after both children had fallen asleep, Amara opened the email.
The Vale Group logo stared back at her.
Elegant. Familiar. Unwelcome.
The message was formal.
A private anniversary event.
Selected designers.
Presentation date.
Lagos.
At the bottom was an attached invitation card.
Her hands felt cold.
She should decline.
That would be the sensible thing.
She had spent six years building distance. Safety. A life untouched by Damien Vale’s world.
So why was her heart beating like this?
She read the email again.
Then once more.
Outside, rain began softly against the window.
The sound stopped her.
For one strange second she was back on that street.
Wet pavement.
Headlights.
A black car.
She closed the laptop sharply.
No.
This was work.
Nothing more.
But before she could stand, another email appeared.
Shorter.
From the same address.
Mr. Vale specifically requested your presence.
Her breath caught.
She stared at the screen.
Six years.
And suddenly Damien Vale was no longer part of the past.
- Writer
