Chapter 18. I come in peace
809 Words
Henry hesitated outside Portia’s door, one hand curled into a fist. He knocked—soft, then firmer.
“Portia?”
A shuffle behind the door. Then silence.
“It’s me,” he said. “Can I come in?”
The door cracked open. Portia stood with arms folded, her face a mix of suspicion and fatigue.
Henry cleared his throat. “I know you’re mad. I’m mad too. But I was thinking… at least she tries.”
Portia blinked. “She took your money, Hen.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “But I’ve seen kids whose parents don’t even remember their names. Parents who vanish. Parents who hit first and ask questions never.”
Portia sighed and leaned against the frame. “She’s not the worst.”
“She’s not the best either,” he added, grinning.
Portia smirked.
“You wanna watch Family Feud or something?” he asked. “There’s leftover popcorn from last night.”
She paused, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
They padded quietly into the lounge, flopped onto the couch like teammates after a bad game. The television clicked on, its warm glow softening the room.
A few minutes later, Dodo tiptoed in. She held the envelope Ma Gloria had left, fingers clutched around it like a peace offering. She stood awkwardly behind the couch, cleared her throat, and said in a small voice:
“I come in peace.”
The kids turned. Portia raised an eyebrow. Henry snorted.
Dodo shuffled forward and placed the envelope on the table. “It’s for your trip,” she said to Portia. “From… well, technically from Gogo. But I asked her. She said yes. Kind of.”
Portia picked up the envelope, opened it slightly, then looked at her mom. “I thought you said she was done helping you.”
Dodo shrugged. “She said she was done helping me. Not her grandchildren. That’s different, apparently.”
Henry chuckled. “Gogo logic.”
Dodo smiled weakly, then sat at the edge of the couch like a visitor unsure of her welcome. “I know I messed up. I shouldn’t have taken your money, Hen. I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have tried to fix things with shortcuts.”
Portia crossed her legs. “Why did you, though?”
Dodo looked at her daughter, really looked, and saw the same fire she’d once had as a girl—but sharper, bolder.
“I thought I had to prove something,” she admitted. “That I could fix everything alone. That I wasn’t failing. But I was failing—and I didn’t want you to see me that way.”
Henry leaned his head against the couch. “We already know you’re not perfect, Ma.”
Portia added, “We just want you to stop pretending you are.”
That stung, but Dodo nodded. “Fair.”
A brief silence. Then Portia tilted her head. “Has… he called?”
Dodo’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“My dad. After that SMS his wife sent you.”
Dodo sighed. “No. He hasn’t.”
Portia didn’t look surprised. Only tired. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Dodo said. “For what I let you hope. I thought maybe…”
“Me too,” Portia murmured, staring at the TV without seeing it.
Henry reached over and squeezed her shoulder. She leaned into him.
The moment held.
Later that night, when the kids had gone to bed and the house was still, Dodo stood in the kitchen rinsing mugs no one had used, letting the warm water run over her hands longer than necessary.
She thought about Ma Gloria.
About how in their house, there had never been room for feelings. Only rules. Faith. Chores. Repentance. She had never been allowed to ask why—only to obey. And even now, as a grown woman, she could not say what she truly meant to her mother. She could not say, You hurt me when you compare me to women with husbands. You make me feel small. You make me feel like all I do will never be enough.
She could not say any of it.
But her children… they could.
They fought back. They spoke up. They told her when she was wrong. They stood their ground.
And while sometimes that broke her heart, it also healed her. Because in all the ways she’d failed them, she’d also given them a freedom she’d never had.
A voice.
Dodo turned off the tap and leaned against the counter, listening to the quiet house.
They were angry. But they weren’t gone.
They still let her sit beside them.
Still shared their popcorn.
Still asked questions.
She wasn’t a perfect mother—but she was theirs. And they were hers.
And that was something worth fighting for.
- Writer
