Chapter 18: Threads of Grace
Ezinne had not expected peace to feel so unfamiliar.
It came in small, quiet waves like a gentle tide lapping against a shore long starved of calm. It started with her mother's hesitant calls. Short, sometimes awkward, but laced with effort. She'd call to ask if Ezinne had eaten. To tell her about something funny that happened in church. Sometimes she called and didn't even speak just breathing quietly on the other end until she whispered, "I miss you."
Ezinne didn't force it. She didn't dig up old wounds or ask for explanations. She simply let her mother speak, even if all she said was silence.
Then came the unexpected visit.
It was a rainy Saturday morning when Ezinne opened her front door and saw her mother on the porch, soaked to the skin, clutching a basket of fresh vegetables from her garden. Her eyes darted nervously, like she was unsure if she should smile or cry.
"I didn't want these to spoil," her mother said, barely meeting her gaze. "And….. I wanted to see you. And him."
Before Ezinne could respond, Chibuikem appeared in the hallway in his Spider-Man pajamas. He blinked at the soaked woman on their porch, then asked shyly, "Grandma?"
Mama crouched immediately and opened her arms. There was a pause—just a second—before Chibuikem dashed into them. Ezinne turned away, wiping at the tears that gathered in her eyes before they could fall.
That visit turned into something more. Sunday dinners followed. Quiet afternoons. Occasional laughter that didn't feel borrowed. Chinedu began visiting too, his presence comforting and lighthearted. He brought laughter, stories from work, and sometimes books for Chibuikem. His words carried no judgment, only a gentle curiosity that slowly turned into companionship.
There were moments when it felt surreal like a scene from a life she never believed she could have. Her mother peeling oranges in her kitchen. Chinedu dancing with Chibuikem to old Igbo highlife songs. Ezinne would stand at the doorway, heart full, waiting for the rug to be pulled out.
But it never was.
At least, not yet.
Adaora remained unchanged. She didn't visit. Her voice on the phone was still cold, clipped, dismissive. Once, when Ezinne greeted her on a family group call, she responded with a tight, "Hmm," and then silence. But for the first time in her life, Ezinne didn't shrink.
She smiled instead.
Adaora's disdain no longer defined her.
One evening, after dinner, Ezinne sat with her mother in the kitchen, the two of them peeling egusi seeds together. The quiet between them was soft, not strained.
"I was cruel," Mama said suddenly, her voice cracking. "Not just to you but to myself. I carried shame like it was a child. I didn't know how to hold love and disappointment at the same time. And you..… you were just a child yourself."
Ezinne paused, then reached out and gently held her mother's hand. Her eyes were moist but steady.
"You don't have to carry it anymore," she said. "We're not who we were."
Her mother looked at her like she was seeing her for the first time.
That night, after everyone had gone home, Ezinne checked on Chibuikem. He was fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling with the rhythm of innocence. She lingered by the door, arms crossed, heart full.
For the first time in a very long while, Ezinne felt rooted. Safe. Her home didn't feel like a cage or a battlefield. It felt like home.
Her family though imperfect was hers again.
She had survived, yes. But now, she was beginning to live.
Unaware that, somewhere beyond this peace, a shadow had begun to stir. One that carried her past in dangerous hands, seeking to rewrite her present.
But for now, there was only grace. Only warmth. Only threads being rewoven into something whole.