THE OTHER PART OF ME

CHAPTER FOUR

The soft hum of her mother’s voice filtered into the room, gentle as the morning sun peeking through the window blinds.

“Princess... wake up, my baby,” her mother whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter's face.

Princess stirred, blinking sleep from her eyes. “Mommy?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“Yes, sweetheart. Today is a special day,” her mother said with a smile. “We’re going out to celebrate your father’s big success. He finally sealed the deal he’s been working so hard on. Can you believe it? We’re going to have a small family dinner to mark it. Your daddy wants all of us together.”

Princess sat up slowly, her nightgown rumpled and her hair wild from sleep. Her older brother, Michael, poked his head into the room with a mischievous grin. “Get up, sleepyhead! You know Dad said you’re the princess of the night. You have to look the prettiest.”

She giggled and threw a pillow at him as he ducked and laughed.

Her mother leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Your clothes are ready on the chair. I’ll be in the kitchen finishing up. Be quick, alright?”

As her mother left the room, Princess sat still for a moment, hugging her pillow. Her heart felt light. She was just ten, but she already knew what joy looked like—and it lived in the warm smiles of her parents, the teasing of her brother, and the laughter that echoed through their home.

She got dressed, brushing her hair with care, wearing the yellow gown her mom had picked for her. She remembered twirling in front of the mirror, imagining herself at a ball, her father lifting her high and calling her his little star.

But all that light was swallowed before the day ended.

The car ride started with laughter, with her father talking about future vacations, her mother snapping a picture of them, and her brother mimicking a news reporter describing their billionaire dad. The last sound she remembered was a loud honk—followed by the world spinning, metal tearing, and screams lost in the crash of glass and steel.

When she woke up, the room was white. Quiet. Cold.

And they were gone.

The hospital room was pale and silent, filled with the soft beeping of machines and the steady hum of fluorescent lights. Princess lay there, unmoving, her tiny frame lost beneath the white bedsheets. Tubes ran from her arms. Her eyes were open but empty—dry, distant, unseeing. Days blurred into nights, and still, she didn’t speak. Nurses came and went. Doctors whispered. But Princess remained locked in her own world, her mind unable to grasp the horror of what had happened.

She was the only one who lived.

Three months passed like a slow, aching storm. She would flinch at loud sounds. She would scream in her sleep, calling out for her mother, for her brother. Sometimes, tears ran down her cheeks without a sound. The nurses called her “the miracle child,” but none could reach her.

When she finally began to respond—nodding faintly, whispering words, moving without fear—it was a sign that healing had begun. But the worst was yet to come.

Her father’s relatives came in a flurry of black clothes and false tears. They signed papers, argued quietly in the hallway, and patted Princess on the head as if that could take her pain away. They told the hospital they would take care of everything—her bills, the burial, and of course, Princess herself.

But that was not the truth.

Before the burial was even complete, her father’s house—their beautiful home with green lawns and white pillars—was sold. His cars disappeared. His company was “dissolved,” or so they claimed. Jewelry, clothes, personal belongings—all auctioned off. They said it was to cover hospital expenses and funeral costs. But the truth? They shared it all like loot.

“She’s a girl. What does she need all that for?” one of her uncles had said. “Girls can’t handle such property. Let’s not waste time.”

Princess was still weak when she was moved to her aunt’s home. Her father’s older sister, Mrs. Udeh—everyone called her Aunty Nicer—had three children. Two boys, and a daughter, Ruth, just a year younger than Princess.

The house they moved into was not the house Aunty Nicer used to live in. It was Princess's family home. The same house that once rang with laughter and piano music. Now it felt cold. Different.

At first, things seemed okay. Aunty Nicer cooked, and Ruth helped Princess get settled. But then, the worst happened again. Three months into her stay, Aunty Nicer received a call while preparing breakfast.

Her husband—Uncle Philip—had collapsed at work and died before they reached the hospital.

Princess, already haunted by loss, ran to her aunt’s room to comfort her, but Aunty Nicer pushed her away, eyes wild with grief and suspicion.

“You! You are a curse! First your parents, now my husband? Get out of my sight! Witch!”

From that day on, everything changed.

Food became scarce—for Princess. She ate only what kind neighbors snuck in or what she managed to get from Ruth when her cousin felt sorry for her. Aunty Nicer would not allow her to go to school. She called her names, made her sleep in the corridor, and blamed every misfortune on her presence.

Still, Princess endured.

One day, a woman who had once been a close friend to her mother came to visit and was shocked by what she saw. The woman, Mrs. Gloria, arranged a scholarship for Princess to finish her secondary school education. That act of kindness became a turning point.

After school, Princess would help in the market—selling cold drinks and sachet water. Some kind strangers gave her small gifts or coins when they recognized her. But whatever she earned, Aunty Nicer would search her bag, accuse her of stealing, and sometimes even beat her for things she didn’t do.