Chapter 10: The Mother’s Proof

The house breathed differently when Chidinma was gone.

Amara stood in the hallway and listened. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. A car passed on the road outside. Normal sounds. But beneath them, something else. The absence of footsteps. The silence where a voice should be.

She had been waiting for this moment for three weeks.

Chidinma had left for a meeting in the city. Two hours. Maybe three. The housekeeper was at the market. Uncle Emeka was at work. Amara was alone.

She moved up the stairs. Her feet made no sound on the carpet. She had practiced this. Every step. Every creak. Every corner where the floor might betray her.

Chidinma’s bedroom door was closed. Amara pressed her ear against the wood. Nothing. She turned the handle. The door swung open.

The room smelled like perfume. Like Chidinma. Floral. Heavy. It made Amara’s stomach turn.

She went to the wardrobe first. The locked drawer. She had seen Chidinma open it twice. Once to put something inside. Once to take something out. Amara had memorised the key’s hiding place. Behind the loose panel in the wardrobe’s back wall.

She found it. The key was small. Brass. Cold in her fingers.

The drawer opened with a click.

Inside lay a bundle. Letters tied with red ribbon. A photograph tucked beneath them.

Amara’s hands were shaking. She pulled everything out. Sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight.

She untied the ribbon. The first letter was folded carefully. The handwriting was familiar. Her mother’s handwriting. She would recognise it anywhere.

My dearest Chi-Chi,

I think about you every night. I know it’s wrong. I know God would not approve. But when I close my eyes, I see your face. I feel your hands. I remember the way you kissed me that night in the garden.

I am not a good woman. But I cannot stop loving you.

— Chinelo

Amara read it again.

Her mother. Her mother wrote this. Her mother loved Chidinma.

She opened the second letter. The handwriting was different. More rushed. The paper was crumpled.

Chi-Chi,

I can’t do this anymore. I tried. I prayed. I begged God to take this feeling away. But every time I see you, I want to touch you. Every time you smile, I forget I have a husband. A daughter.