“Do not start what? Asking questions?”
Emeka came out too.
“Calm down. The neighbors will hear.”
“Good,” Obinna said bitterly. “Maybe they already know what I am only discovering.”
Chiniere’s face hardened.
“You come back after six years and now you want to judge us?”
Guilt struck him, but he did not move.
“I worked for her. I sent money for her.”
“And you think that was enough? You think money raises a child?”
“What sacrifice did you make?” Obinna asked. “She sleeps on a mat near the kitchen.”
“The house is small.”
“Yet your children each have a room.”
“They are younger.”
“Uche is almost twenty!”
Silence fell.
Adaeze whispered, “Papa, please. Do not fight because of me.”
The words hurt him even more. She believed she had no right to be defended.
Obinna turned to Chiniere.
“Why is she no longer in school?”
“She was not made for it,” Chiniere said.
“What does that mean?”
“She was not as bright as Uche or Amaka. At some point, one must be realistic.”
Obinna looked at Adaeze.
“Is that true?”
She whispered, “I liked school.”
“What did you want?”
She swallowed.
“I wanted to become a nurse.”
The silence felt enormous.
A nurse.
All those years, she had held that dream while carrying water and sleeping by the kitchen.
“Why did you never tell me?”
“You were already working so hard,” she said. “I did not want to be one more problem.”
Obinna could barely breathe.
One more problem.
His daughter believed she was a burden.
“Pack your things,” he said.
Adaeze stared at him.
“What?”
“You are coming with me.”
Chiniere stepped forward.
“You cannot do that.”
“I can.”
“Where will you take her? You do not even have a house.”
“I will find one.”
“And if she fails?”
“Then it will be my fault. Not hers.”
Adaeze shook her head slowly.
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
She looked at the yard, the kitchen, the basins, the laundry.
“Because I no longer know how to live differently.”
That sentence silenced everyone.
And Obinna understood: the hardest part would not be taking her out of the house. It would be teaching her she deserved better.
That night, he sat with Adaeze outside beneath the stars.
“Do you remember your mother?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said softly. “She made puff-puff on Sundays. And she sang while braiding my hair.”
“She sang badly,” Obinna said.
Adaeze laughed softly — the first true laugh he had heard from her.
“Your mother wanted you to go far,” he said. “She talked about you often.”
“It has been a long time since anyone talked about me that way.”
Obinna took her hand.
“What they made you believe is not the truth.”
