She looked at Chiniere first.
“I will eat later.”
“Why later?”
“She still has things to do,” Chiniere said calmly. “She will eat later.”
“Sit down anyway,” Obinna said.
Adaeze took one small step forward.
“There is no more space,” Chiniere said.
Obinna looked at the room. There was an empty chair at the back.
“That chair is broken,” Chiniere added quickly.
Obinna wanted to protest, but after six years away, guilt held his tongue.
So Adaeze returned to the kitchen. She served water, brought plates, cleared dishes, and obeyed every order.
“Adaeze, bring more juice.”
“Adaeze, there is no pepper.”
“Adaeze, clean this.”
No one seemed to find it strange.
Later that night, Obinna opened his suitcase and gave Adaeze the yellow dress, sandals, phone, and school bag.
She stared at them like she had been given treasure.
“They are for you,” he said.
Her fingers trembled when she touched the dress.
“Thank you, Papa.”
As she turned to leave, he stopped her.
“Adaeze, are you happy here?”
The question hung in the air.
She lowered her eyes.
“Yes. I am fine.”
But she did not look at him.
And Obinna knew she was lying.
That night, he could not sleep. Much later, he heard a faint sound near the kitchen. He rose quietly and passed the half-open storeroom door.
Inside, Adaeze lay on a thin old mat on the floor. No fan. No blanket. Only a small worn pillow beneath her head.
Obinna stood frozen in the darkness.
His daughter did not sleep in a room.
She slept near the kitchen like a servant.
He barely slept at all.
Before sunrise, he went into the yard and saw Adaeze by the well with an empty basin on her head.
“Adaeze.”
She startled.
“Papa, you are awake?”
“How long have you been up?”
“Maybe since five.”
“Why so early?”
“I have to fetch water before the other women arrive.”
