Kelechi asked questions at first. Then his mother told him Ada was too loud, too unfocused, too easily distracted by dreams bigger than herself.
“She fills every room,” Josephine said one evening, as if laughter were a disease. “A home needs peace.”
So Kelechi let Ada go.
He told himself it was for the best.
Years later came Blessing.
Blessing had degrees, confidence, and a mind so sharp it made Kelechi proud and Mama Josephine uncomfortable. At first, Josephine smiled at her.
“Welcome, my daughter,” she said when Blessing came to the house for the first time. “Come and sit.”
But after Blessing left, Josephine turned to Kelechi.
“She greeted me like a colleague,” she said. “A woman who does not kneel has already decided where she stands.”
“Mama, she is from Lagos,” Kelechi said carefully.
“She is not marrying Lagos,” Josephine replied. “She is marrying this family.”
From that day, every part of Blessing became evidence. Her laugh was too much. Her opinions were too strong. Her education made her proud. If she corrected a wrong statement, she was showing off. If she stayed quiet, she was secretly judging.
One Sunday, Josephine tasted Blessing’s food and sighed dramatically.
“A woman who oversalts her food is a woman who overreaches in everything,” she said.
Blessing smiled politely. “That is an interesting connection, Mama, but there is no real link between seasoning and character.”
Josephine placed a hand on her chest.
Kelechi saw it coming. He had seen that hand on that chest his whole life.
“My heart,” Josephine whispered. “Kelechi…”
Panic took over the room. Someone brought water. Someone suggested an ambulance. Blessing knelt beside her, frightened and confused.
But later that night, when they were alone, Blessing looked at Kelechi with tired eyes.
“Your mother is the third person in our bed,” she said softly. “And I am not a polygamist.”
Kelechi said nothing.
Blessing waited.
Still, he said nothing.
Two weeks later, she left a letter on the dining table.
“I came into this house with my whole heart open,” she wrote. “I do not know exactly when it closed, but I know I cannot compete with what you love most here. I am leaving you the house, the kitchen, the memories, and the version of yourself that has forgotten he is allowed to want his own life. I hope one day you find him.”
Kelechi folded the letter with shaking hands.
Josephine entered the room and saw his face.
“She left?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Eat first,” she said. “You look thin.”
And somehow, even in his grief, Kelechi obeyed.
Then came Nneka.
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