CHAPTER ONE
“I wish you could stay a little longer, Aria,” she said gently.
I didn’t even look at her. My bags were already packed, and I had a flight to catch in two hours.
Only God knows how much I hate being around her. I’m only here because of Dad. He always said, “Your mother is not the enemy.”
But to me, she is.
If she hadn’t left, maybe I wouldn’t have had to suffer so much after losing Dad.
My name is Aria Moretti. I’m Italian—born to an Akwa Ibom woman from Nigeria. What I’ve never understood is why she married my father when she knew she wouldn’t stay to raise me. Just me. She never had another child with him, and after she left, Dad never remarried. He stayed single to take care of me and this always makes me feel guilty, like he's sacrificing so much for me and all this is because mum left.
I was only seven the day she walked away, but that memory... it never left me.
I remember waking up to the sound of quiet sobs. My parents were in the living room. Dad was pleading with her. Begging. And she kept repeating the same line: “It’s for your good”.
Dad cried like a broken man. When he noticed me standing there in my pajamas, confused and frightened, he ran to hold me. Clutched me tightly. Mum just stood there, watching us—silent tears sliding down her face.
“What’s going on?” I asked. No one answered.
Then she picked up her already-packed bag and walked toward the door.
“Don’t leave us, Imaobong,” Dad begged. I understand what you explained to me and I'm aware what will happen if they find out you have a family here. Instead of leaving us like this, why not take us along, we can all go together to Nigeria, stay there and continue our lives, no one from here will ever find out, I promise. Please. Don’t abandon us.”
She said nothing. Just cried and walked away.
I chased after her with my tiny legs, screaming, “Please, Mama, don’t go!”
She finally turned and said, “It’s for our good. If I stay, we’ll all suffer. Let me go. I didn't know what else to say so I begged her to listen to dad. We can all go back to Nigeria, we love you mummy, who will take care of me. Think about me” I cried.
Dad shouted, “Let's go together, Imaobong! Please!”
“No!” she screamed.
“No one in my father’s land knows I have a child here. We’re not even married, Moretti. How do you expect us all to go back and live there like nothing happened? They’ll ask questions.
My people—they love to know the families of the men their daughters are with. It’s our tradition. And if they insist, if we’re forced to explain, we might be dragged back to Rome—and I’ll have to face those people again.
I’m sorry, Moretti. Just… take care of her. Stay safe. And please… make sure no one finds out you’re connected to me.
I love you.”.
Then she ran.
I watched her get into a taxi and drive off.
I’ll never forget how Dad collapsed on the floor that night, crying like a child. And I, just seven years old, had to hold him. I had to be the strong one.
He loved her too much. That’s why he broke.
And yet, all my life, he kept saying, “Your mother isn’t the enemy. She left so we could be safe.”
But if it were truly about safety, why didn’t she take us with her? Why did she abandon us instead?
I don’t care what her reasons were. All I know is that I hated her the moment she walked away. And I hated her even more every time I watched Dad suffer just to take care of me.
And now here I am—standing in Akwa Ibom, Nigeria, in the house of the same woman who left me behind.
It’s my first time in Nigeria—and I swear, it will be the last.
I only came because Dad asked me to. Before he died, he wished I could reunite with her. He even gave me their journal—the one that contains everything about the both of them, their love lives and everything and this journal brought me to her.
So I came.
And now she’s acting like nothing happened—like I’m just some daughter returning home from college.
She proudly introduces me to everyone as her “daughter from the Italian man,” while pretending the past never existed.
No one ever knew she had me, so she had to do a lot of explaining. Everyone kept asking about my dad.
“I told them he passed away ten years ago,” I said.
I saw the shock on her face when I said that—but it didn’t change how I saw her. She’s still the woman who left me to suffer alone.
“How did you survive without your father?” she asked.
“With my father’s siblings. In Canada,” I replied.
She let out a long breath.
“Aria, I am truly sorry,” she said softly. “Thank you… for looking for me.”
But deep inside, I was asking a different question: Would she have ever looked for me if I hadn’t come looking for her?
The answer was already clear.
She’s happily married now. With three other kids.
So why do I even matter?
I thought I’d find a woman who was lonely, maybe even haunted by the family she abandoned seventeen years ago. But no—she had already moved on.
She was shocked when she walked into her father’s compound and saw me sitting there.
She hadn't expected that.
How did I even find her? It was all in my father’s journal.
From Canada, I flew to Lagos, Nigeria. Then, following the journal’s directions, I made my way to Akwa Ibom. There, I showed someone the address she gave my dad years ago—her father's house.
The man I spoke to told me to go to the local government headquarters, and from there, someone would help me find the Effiong family.
That’s how a stranger helped me trace her.
When I showed her picture to the locals, they recognized her instantly. One of them even offered to call her.
The moment she heard “Aria Moretti claims to be your daughter and is looking for you”, she screamed on the phone.
Minutes later, she arrived at the compound—rushed, wide-eyed, emotional.
At first, I thought the tears in her eyes meant she missed me. That she never stopped thinking about me.
But later, I realized the truth.
She didn’t cry because she missed me.
She cried because she thought our path would never cross again. Because she was not even making an effort or plans towards looking for me.
That’s fine. But it hurts.
But this—this is my goodbye. I’ll never visit again. Even if I ever return to Nigeria, it won’t be for her.
The taxi heading to the airport felt longer than usual, even with the blaring horns and yelling hawkers on the streets of Uyo. Aria sat glumly by the window, arms folded, large dark sunglasses covering her eyes. Her mother, Imaobong Okon, sat beside her, trying—once again—to say something meaningful.
But Aria didn’t acknowledge her presence. Her face was turned toward the window, staring at nothing. She was counting the minutes—not to depart, but to leave and never return. Nigeria never felt like home. And her mother? A woman she tolerated out of blood, not love.
She hadn’t said a word to her mother since they left the house. Not one word. Even during her stay, she only spoke when necessary—when introductions were made, when strangers were present. She would wear a fake smile, acting like everything was fine.
What brought Aria to Nigeria wasn’t just curiosity—it was the need for answers.
Answers to the why that had haunted her for years.
Why did you leave?
Why did you run away?
Who are the people you ran from, maybe they're also the people who killed dad?
She had carried those questions across oceans and continents, holding onto hope like a fragile thread.
But realising that her mother had already moved on.
She had built a new life.
A new family.
A new story where Aria and Moretti didn’t exist.
That truth hit harder than any rejection. And so, Aria swallowed her pain, buried her questions deep inside, and chose silence.
The last thing Aria had said to her was: “Dad said I must come to you. That’s why I’m here.”
The only person she had been close to during her stay was her foster brother, Edikan. He made her stay bearable. They went out together, took great pictures, and made warm memories. But even then, Aria was never truly happy. Just distracted. Now she was leaving—and still hadn’t had a real conversation with her mother.
