Chapter 17: Bridges and Barriers
She didn't owe them another visit. That's what she told herself.
But here she was again, standing at the same gate that had nearly swallowed her whole the last time she walked through it.
The first visit had been a storm. Adaora had torn into her like a wound that refused to scab over, hurling guilt-laced words masked as concern. Their mother had hovered between silence and helpless stammering, while Chinedu watched like a man pinned between two worlds. No one had truly listened.
And yet, here she stood again — not for them, but for herself. For closure. For clarity. For the small sliver of hope that something broken could be mended.
She knocked, and this time, the door opened before her hand could fall away.
"Ezinne," Chinedu said, blinking as though unsure she was real.
"Hi," she said, her voice calm, her spine straight. She wasn't the same woman who had walked out weeks ago, tears burning behind her eyes. This time, she came with purpose, not pain.
He stepped aside. "You came back."
"I didn't think I would," she admitted.
Their mother stood up from the couch, a look of quiet surprise on her face. This time, there was no forced smile, no anxious fidgeting — just a softness in her gaze that hadn't been there before.
"I made us something light to eat," her mother said. "I wasn't sure, but I hoped..."
Ezinne nodded, following them into the dining room. The table wasn't dressed to impress, but the effort was evident. Fried plantains, a simple egusi soup, and rice, all the small things she once loved but never admitted aloud.
They ate in silence for a while. Chinedu stole glances at her between bites, as if trying to say something without words.
It was their mother who broke the silence.
"I haven't been the mother you deserved," she began quietly, voice uneven. "But I want to try, if you're willing."
Ezinne looked at her — not through her, not past her. Just at her. The woman who had once made her feel invisible was now reaching across years of hurt with trembling hands.
"I'm not here to replay the past," Ezinne said, "but I'm open to starting again. One step at a time."
Before her mother could respond, a familiar voice sliced through the moment.
"Well, isn't this beautiful."
Adaora stood by the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "You walk out like a hurricane and come back like nothing happened?"
"I came back for peace," Ezinne said simply.
Adaora let out a short, bitter laugh. "Peace? Is that what we're calling it now? You waltz in here like the victim, and suddenly everyone's supposed to pretend it's fine?"
"I never asked anyone to pretend," Ezinne replied, her tone even.
"Oh please," Adaora scoffed. "You're good at playing the part — the strong one, the broken one, the martyr. Meanwhile, the rest of us are just background characters in your story."
Chinedu stood up this time, voice firm. "That's enough, Adaora."
She turned to him, stunned. "Excuse me?"
"You said your piece the last time. Let her speak now."
Adaora's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps sharp against the floor.
Ezinne exhaled, her hands still on the table.
"I didn't come to fight," she said quietly.
"I know," Chinedu said. "That's why I spoke up."
Their mother reached across the table, her hand resting gently over Ezinne's.
"We can't rewrite the past," she said, her voice cracking. "But I can choose to show up now. To listen. To love better."
Ezinne swallowed hard. The pain was still there — not erased, but somehow... lighter.
"I'll keep showing up too," she whispered. "If you'll have me."
Chinedu smiled, his eyes glassy. "We want you here. I do."
It wasn't a grand reconciliation. Adaora's footsteps upstairs still echoed with tension. But the quiet in the room held something powerful — a beginning.
Not perfection, but intention.