Gratam Dei

GRATAM DEI

INTRODUCTION

The storm broke the night open like a scream—loud, jarring, alive. Thunder ripped through the woods, splitting trees and scattering creatures of all sizes—winged and crawling alike— into the shadows. The sky, dark and aching, cried with the innocent sorrow of a child, and from its weeping rose a strange, almost sacred scent: a breeze steeped in banana and coconut drifted in from the river beyond the countryside, dancing with the air. Water crashed against itself in symphony, carrying the wild and haunting beauty of nature’s breath.

I lay motionless, calm in a way that felt unnatural, on the soaked wood of the bed. Rain had found its way in. My body was slick, cool, every curve kissed by the passing storm. Above me, the ceiling was a tapestry of darkness, pierced by pinpricks of imagined starlight— reflections cast by the chandelier, as though the night sky had leaned in through a mirror and refused to leave.

"What have you done?" I whispered, not moving, only sliding my gaze to the figure beside me.

He slept heavily, breathing deep, the rise and fall of his chest a quiet rhythm in the room. Heat radiated from his body, clashing with the coolness that rolled in drops from my head down the slope of my shoulders, between my breasts, through the soft tangle of hair between my legs, and finally to the tips of my toes. I could still feel the pulse of last night—the pain laced with pleasure, the aching echo of how tightly he'd held me, how completely he'd claimed me.

My eyes, wide and blue, refused to close. I tried not to think. But how could I not?

Last night had been something else. He was good—no, he was incredible. And, to my surprise, so was I. There had been moments when I’d shocked even myself. We’d been perfect. But now, in the silence of the aftermath, something didn’t feel right. Not wrong, just… hollow. As if something irreplaceable had slipped from my grasp.

My gaze fell to the stain on the sheet—dark, vivid. Proof. I felt something inside me tighten.

A piece of me was gone.

I held back tears as I carefully peeled his arm from around my waist, a slow, deliberate movement. I slipped from the bed and began to limp toward the bathroom, needing space, needing breath. Halfway there, my knees gave out. I collapsed. Hard.

I turned toward the bed, dread pooling in my chest. Did he stir?

Still. Deep asleep.

Relieved, I forced myself upright, palms cold against the wet tile.

Then—his voice, rough and drowsy.

“Baby, are you okay?”

I said nothing.

Maybe he's dreaming.

I pressed on, slowly, carefully, not daring to look back.

“Baby,” he said again, clearer now. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I answered too quickly.

“You don’t look okay.”

He was sitting up.

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to walk faster.

But my body betrayed me. I fell again, this time with less grace, less will to rise. He rushed to my side.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hushed. “I didn’t mean to be that rough with you.”

A small, sheepish smile touched his lips. He reached for me.

“Let me help.”

“No. You weren’t too rough. I’m fine,” I whispered, eyes drifting toward him.

He held my arm, steadying me, as we made our way to the bathroom. His touch was tender, and yet every step I took sparked a memory—his voice, his weight, the way he filled me. The need rose again, quiet but urgent. I wanted him. Not because I lacked control—but because in that moment, nothing else felt real.

“You were amazing last night,” he said, brushing his lips against my ear. “I love you.”

The words sank deep, anchoring themselves in my chest.

“I love you,” I murmured, barely audible.

He paused. Then kept walking.

“I love you,” I said again, clearer now.

He stopped. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve always been sure,” I replied, limping forward. “You were... incredible. I can’t stop thinking about how you looked at me. How you let me take care of you. How you were inside me like you never wanted to leave.”

He turned, reaching for me. His hands were warm.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I love you. I need you to know that.”

“I know.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I want you,” I said. “I want more of you.”

But I couldn’t meet his eyes.

He smiled, gently. It wasn't amusement—it was understanding.

“Why are you smiling?” I asked, stepping away.

“Because you say one thing, but your eyes say something else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not just tired. It’s something more. And you know it.”

“I just need to rest,” I insisted. “You had all of me last night. I just need time to breathe.”

I returned to the bed, lay down slowly.

“Lay with me, Cam.”

“Okay,” he said, climbing in beside me. He pulled me close again.

“What’s next?” he asked.

I said nothing.

The silence said everything.

CHAPTER 1

My name is Karla Johnson. I’m twenty-six, currently unemployed, and a graduate of Rollin College in Florida. I studied International Relations for four years and, in 2011, I graduated with first-class honours.

It wasn’t long after graduation that my life accelerated. I landed a role as an Intercommunication Manager at a reputable marketing firm—an opportunity few fresh graduates could dream of. Two and a half years later, I was promoted to General Manager for Research, Strategic Studies, and Intercommunication. I was proud. Accomplished. Ready to rise.

Then came 2016. After the Orlando nightclub shooting, Florida’s economy, especially in the South, began to tremble. Businesses struggled. Jobs were cut. My company was no exception. They started letting people go—those whose jobs had been replaced by machines, and those who didn’t hold advanced degrees: no Master’s, no PhD.

I had neither.

Rather than waiting to be dismissed, I resigned. It felt like the honourable choice, though at the time, it was hard to tell if I was saving myself or giving up.

I never realized how many people had those degrees. A Master’s. A Doctorate. Who were they? Geniuses? Aliens from another world? The thought burned through me like fire laced with doubt and envy.

"How did they do it?" I whispered bitterly to myself, eyes glued to the computer screen as I scrolled through LinkedIn, stalking the progress of my former colleagues.

“You won’t kill yourself. Say amen.”

The voice snapped me from my trance. I looked up—it was my older sister, standing in the living room, watching me silently the entire time.

“What’s your business? Leave me alone,” I muttered.

“Take your eyes—and your heart—off those people,” she said, stepping closer to where I sat at the dining table.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I kept scrolling, quietly soaking in their successes, comparing my despair to their progress. It hurt.

“I know you’re deaf. Very deaf!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “Mum! Mum! Mum!”

I looked at her, eyes filled with a pain words couldn’t shape.

“Karla,” she said more softly, “let it go. Let them go.”

“But how?”

“Was I the one who told you to resign? Was I there when you made that decision?” Her voice was calm, her expression unflinching. “You made your choice. It’s time to start again. They’re living their lives. You need to live yours.”

“She’s right,” my mother said from behind us. “It’s been over a week. It’s not the end of the world. You’ll find something better—something more advanced.”

“How?” I asked, lost in the fog of confusion.

“Through connections. Through effort. Through faith. When we get there, we’ll cross that bridge.”

“I was so close, Mum. So close.”

“I know, baby. I know.” She reached for my shoulder, gently. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I hope so.” I whispered.

There was a pause, then her tone lightened. “In the meantime, I made pancakes and scrambled eggs with hot chocolate. Do you want some?”

“I’m starving,” my sister said, already halfway to the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. “Later, maybe.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Just save me some.”

“Of course.”

As they left the room, their voices trailed into a quiet hum. I remained behind, sinking back into the memory of that last morning at work. I was nervous. Terrified. The resignation letter trembled in my hands as I dropped it on the CEO’s desk.

Hours later, it was official. I was told to pack my belongings and leave. The moment I stepped out, it felt like all eyes were on me. Whispers followed my every footstep. The office felt like a coliseum—and I, the fallen gladiator.

I walked alone to the train station, tears spilling down sunburnt cheeks, my eyes burning in the harsh light. Regret stung harder than the heat.

Now, lying on the scratchy rug of our living room floor, I felt the weight of everything I’d lost. I cried without shame. It felt like mourning. My mother and sister sat nearby, helpless witnesses to my collapse.

Then, a voice broke the silence.

“Maybe you should apply for a Master’s degree,” my sister suggested gently.

The tears stopped as both my mother and I turned to look at her.

“What were the requirements for staying at your job?” she asked.

“A Master’s or a PhD,” I said quietly.

“Well,” she said, shrugging, “instead of crying yourself into a grave, maybe it’s time to fight back. You had a first-class degree. Get a scholarship. Apply for a Master’s in International Relations.”

I was stunned. Her words made sense—algebraic sense. I could understand them, but I couldn’t speak them back.

“Karla? Are you still with us?” she waved a hand in front of me.

“Hm?”

“A Master’s. Do you want to do it?”

“Yes. But how would I pay?”

“With a scholarship. You got your first job right out of school because of your grades. Use them again. Apply.”

“How?”

She laughed. “Dummy. Apply. Just apply.”

They both stared at me, holding their breath.

I looked at them, heart racing.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Yes.”

“Yes?” my sister gasped.

“Yes,” I said again.

“She said yes!” they shouted, laughter and joy flooding the room as they rushed to hug me, all three of us wrapped in something we hadn’t felt in days—hope.

CHAPTER 2

It’s been six and a half weeks since I decided to apply for a Master’s degree. And in those three and a half weeks, life happened—oh, it really did.

The first week was the week of dreams. Of aspirations. Of grand, cinematic miracles that I hoped would fall from the sky like spring rain. Each morning I woke up expectant, believing something dramatic and beautiful would shift in my world.

That week, food and films became my companions. My mother and I bonded again over old Nollywood dramas and buttery pancakes. For a moment, it was comforting—until my sister pointed it out during dinner, her voice laced with something I couldn’t quite name. Apprehension? Judgment? Concern?

Maybe it wasn’t strange to be spending that much time with Mum. But it had been years since I had. Maybe it wasn’t what she said—it was how she said it. Like I was losing myself and didn’t know it.

That same week was also the week of fear—specifically, fear of the unknown. I began obsessively researching universities across the U.S. that offered scholarships in International Relations. My love for travel stirred within me—untouched, untested, but deep. I had always wanted to see the world, to wander, to sail—but had gone nowhere. This, I realized, could be the chance. A Master’s degree could be my gateway to more than a job. It could be the start of a life I only daydreamed about.

I dubbed that stretch the days of short hours. Time moved strangely, like it was racing me— and for once, my dreams were keeping up.

By week three, hesitation had given way to resolve. I applied for scholarships across continents. Then, a miracle—not quite cinematic, but certainly life-changing.

A full scholarship offer arrived.

Harvard University had accepted me.

I screamed so loudly, I startled my sister. My mother cried tears of joy. To them, it was everything. To me, it was a piece of myself coming back.

The scholarship erased financial fears about tuition. All that was left was accommodation and food, but even that seemed manageable now. Finally, hope had a name.

And then came the obstacle I hadn’t prepared for—recommendation letters. One from my university. Another from my former employer.

A storm started to brew in my chest.

“How on earth will I use my two God-given feet to step on the ground that didn’t want me anymore?” I whispered aloud.

“You’re so arrogant and proud. You haven’t even tried stepping back on that ground.”

I jumped.

It was my Aunt Becca.

“Good morning, Aunt Becca.”

“Is it really a good morning?” she asked, arms folded. “What are you doing?”

Before I could answer, my mother’s voice came sharply from the kitchen.

“Leave her alone, Rebecca. What are you doing here so early?”

“Lizzy. How are you?”

“I’m good. You? Where is your husband?”

“At home. We’re fine.”

“You started another fight, haven’t you?”

“No!” Aunt Becca snapped. “I came to tell you something important.”

“There’s always something,” my mother sighed.

I didn’t wait to hear what “important” meant this time. I grabbed my laptop, slipped quietly from the room like a rabbit fleeing the open field.

As I passed my mother, our eyes locked—and I bolted.

“Hey! What’s chasing you?” my sister laughed.

“Aunt Becca is here.”

Her face dropped. “This early? Again?”

“She’s already started.”

My sister rushed to the front door and double-locked it. We laughed quietly, half-amused, half-relieved, holding each other like co-conspirators in a family war.

We spent the next hour in my room, talking—sometimes nonsense, sometimes about things that mattered. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, then went quiet, lost in our own separate dreams.

Then we heard it—the front door slammed.

We waited. Fifty seconds. It was the unspoken rule. Let the house settle, the energy cool. Then we tiptoed downstairs, quiet as mist.

We found our mother on the living room floor. Sitting. Face collapsed. Her eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, and her body trembled—not from anger, but something heavier. A weight I hadn’t seen on her in years.

“Mama, what happened?” my sister asked, panic creeping into her voice.

“Yes, Mum, what is it?” I echoed.

She said nothing. Her lips moved but no words came out.

“Mum, talk to me,” I whispered, kneeling beside her.

She looked at me, and in her eyes was a fear I didn’t recognize. It was ancient. It was truth, untold.

“Did Abuela die?” my sister asked, almost too afraid to know.

Our mother broke into tears. She couldn’t speak. That was answer enough. We rushed to the phone, trying to reach our uncle—until she finally spoke.

“Maliki. Karla.”

She said our full names.

In our entire lives, she had never done that.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said, voice shaking. “Something I’ve hidden for years.”

“Mum… what is it?” I asked. My sister took my hand, steadying me.

“Promise me you won’t panic. Either of you.”

“You’re scaring us,” I said softly.

Then, through sobs, came the truth:

“Your father… he’s not dead. He’s alive. And he wants to see his daughters.”

I froze. The words echoed in my ears like a slow explosion. A world I thought I knew had just shifted beneath my feet.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. I couldn’t.

Instead, I stood up, walked backward as if distance would undo what I’d heard. My sister clutched her chest. My mother cried openly, broken and raw.

And all I could think was—

What do you do when the dead come back to life?

CHAPTER 3

There comes a moment in life when you find yourself at a crossroad—with only one option ahead, no detours, no second chances. I once heard someone say, “A fable is a bridge that leads to the truth.” But what happens when the truth itself is a story you never imagined?

It’s been six days, twenty-three hours, and nearly a full minute since I learned that my father —the man I believed had died—was, in fact, alive.

The truth paralyzed me.

How could she? How could my mother hide something so monumental from us—for so long? It had been fifteen years since she last mentioned him. And even then, only vaguely. The questions rushed in like a flood I couldn’t stop:

Where has he been?

What does he look like?

Have I unknowing seen him before?

Why was he hidden from us?

Why now?

I sat curled on my bed, choking on the ache in my chest. The betrayal cut deep, slicing through my beliefs, through everything I thought I knew about my life, my family, myself.

“She lied to us,” I whispered to the quiet. “Twenty years—twenty whole years. For what?”

Tears rolled down without resistance.

“Karl,” Maliki’s voice came softly behind me. She sat on the edge of my bed, gently placing her hand on mine. “Karla Johnson, it’s been six days. Say something. Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say. I’m fine.” My voice was low, void of feeling. “When you leave, please shut the door behind you.”

“Karla… I know this is hard. It’s hard for me too. But don’t push me away. Please.”

“I need time to think. Your presence is choking me,” I said, staring at her, eye to eye. My words cut her more than I meant them to.

She blinked away the hurt and kissed my forehead. “Whenever you need me, I’m just a door away.”

That evening, she knocked again—softly at first, then with the persistence only a sister can master.

“Who is it?” I called, more irritated than I meant to sound.

“It’s me. Maliki.”

“Come in.”

She entered with a big smile, hoping to cheer me up. It didn’t work. In fact, it annoyed me more.

“What do you want?” I asked sharply.

“Do you like my dress?” she asked, ignoring my attitude.

“It’s nice. Are you going out with Dele tonight?”

“No,” she said with a smirk. “Actually… we’re having dinner. With someone special.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. He’s downstairs already. So, hurry up and wear something nice!”

“‘Wear something nice,’” I muttered, mimicking her voice.

As I descended the stairs, the voices grew clearer. I didn’t know who the guest was yet, but a strange feeling sat in my chest. Halfway down, I paused and glanced at my outfit. Not exactly formal, but passable.

Then I saw him.

Dr. J. Richman.

Dr. J. freaking Richman—the youngest PhD holder of his time, the CEO of the company I once worked for. He was in my house.

Suddenly, everything about that night changed. My hands trembled, and my legs turned to jelly. This dinner was about to be more than special—it was life-altering.

As I took the last few steps, his eyes found me.

“This must be Karla, right?” he asked my mother, his voice wrapped in a thick, composed accent.

“Yes. She worked at your organization for two and a half years.”

“Really? That’s impressive.”

“Good evening, sir,” I said, summoning every ounce of strength I had. “It’s an honour to meet you again.”

“Good evening, Karla. How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you. You worked at Rich Tech, didn’t you? What was that like?”

“I loved it. I learned so much. Unfortunately, I’m no longer with the company.” I glanced at my mum and Maliki. We all smiled—those forced, knowing family smiles.

From the way he looked at me, I knew he wanted to ask why I’d left. But before he could, my mother swooped in.

“Let’s eat before the food gets cold, shall we?”

“Perfect,” he replied, his eyes lingering on me a moment longer.

The next hour felt like something from another world. We laughed, we shared dreams, we sipped wine like we were in a movie scene. The mood lifted. For the first time in weeks, I felt joy—not forced, not distracted, but real joy.

Then, just as dessert was being served, Dr. Richman turned to me.

“Karla, I heard you’re pursuing a Master’s degree?”

“Yes,” I replied, sitting up straighter. “That’s my next big step.”

“Do you need a recommendation from the organization?”

“Yes, sir!” I nearly leapt with excitement. “I was planning to send a request letter tomorrow.”

“No need,” he said, smiling at my mother. “It’s already been taken care of.”

He rose, walked over to his suitcase on the couch, and returned with a brown envelope. I opened it slowly, unsure of what I was holding.

A recommendation letter. Not just any letter—one signed by both my university and Dr. J. Richman himself.

I was stunned.

“Surprised?” he asked.

“Beyond words. How… how did you know all the requirements?”

“Your mum called me,” he said casually. “Asked for a little favor.”

“Thank you so much.” I stood up and hugged him without even thinking. “You’re officially forgiven. Thank you, Mum.”

“Don’t stress it,” he said with a warm smile.

And then came the moment that shifted everything.

Maliki tilted her head and asked the question that would shake the walls of our world.

“It seems like you two—Mum and Dr. Richman—know each other.”

Their silence was louder than any answer. Their faces changed. Their eyes connected, holding something deep. Hidden. Painful.

“Yes,” I added, my voice calm but firm. “How do you two know each other?”

My mother’s hands began to tremble. She looked down, then back up at him. “Richman… it’s time. We have to tell them.”

“Lizzy… are you sure?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft.

“Yes. I can’t keep this from them anymore.”

My heart began to race.

“What is it?” we asked, together.

Dr. Richman looked at us—his eyes almost glassy, like he was stepping through time.

“I’m your father,” he said quietly. “I’m the father of you two.”

Time stood still.

And I… didn’t know if I was breathing.

CHAPTER 4

Heartache. Heartbreak. Hurt.

They were the only feelings storming through my circulatory system. My brain burned, my eyes were red, and my skin itched with the weight of betrayal. I was dumbstruck. My ears couldn’t believe the sound they had delivered. I felt tied down—as if someone had chained me to the floor of a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

I was living my ephialtes.

When I finally opened my eyes the next morning, I wasn’t at home—I was at the hospital.

Lying on a stiff, worn-out wooden-framed bed, I felt like a hopeless turkey on Thanksgiving day—served, watched, pitied. I couldn’t even sit up. My limbs were too tired, too heavy. My mind was even worse.

The hospital room was as devoid of beauty as I was of hope. The walls were cream—not dirty, not peeling, just painfully plain. There were no decorations except a limp, tired curtain that divided my bed from three others. It might’ve once been spring green, but now it was just… insipid.

The room smelled faintly of bleach and sorrow. The floor was dull grey. The only windows were set in brown metal frames, and they only opened at the top—like even the air outside didn’t want to come in.

By the door, the dispensers stood guard—rubber gloves, sanitizer, soap. Their presence reminded me how easily things fall apart, how fragile we are. Germs, lies, grief—they all contaminate in silence.

I didn’t hear him walk in, but I felt him.

A stillness settled around me. A familiar stillness.

“Uncle Alyvn?” I whispered, eyes still locked on the window. “Is that you?”

“Sayangku, how are you?” His voice was warm—soothing in a way that almost shattered me.

I sighed. A deep, tired, defeated sigh. It was layered—with grief, with betrayal, with twenty years of unanswered questions and the sting of silence. What was the truth? Who was it from? What even counted as truth anymore?

“Karla, I know this hurts. I know what it feels like.” He sat beside me. “Talk to me. You always talk to me.”

Uncle Alyvn had always been there. Not just physically—present. Emotionally, spiritually. When I needed school fees, when I cried through my first heartbreak, when I celebrated my first job—he was there. That was the only father I knew growing up.

And yet… now everything had shifted.

I couldn’t even look at him. If I did, I’d break.

“Karla, you are my daughter,” he said softly, in Bahasa. “You always have been. It breaks me to see you like this. Please... talk to me.”

Before I could respond, the door creaked open.

Aunt Becca and Maliki walked in, their faces strained. Exhausted. Helpless.

“She hasn’t said a word since I arrived,” Uncle Alyvn said to them.

Aunt Becca walked over to me, her hand brushing gently against my forehead. “Sayangku, mama’s here. Please… talk to me.”

Nothing. I kept staring at the wall—blank and hollow, just like I felt.

“Bayi, maybe you and Mali should step out,” Aunt Becca said, still stroking my head. “Give her space. I’ll stay.”

“Sure,” Maliki nodded, glancing at me before exiting.

Aunt Becca sat quietly for a moment, watching me breathe.

“You know,” she said softly, “everyone’s worried. I’m worried. Just… say something.”

I tried. The words caught in my throat like sand.

“I’m fine,” I croaked. My voice barely existed.

She sighed heavily. “Okay. Is there anything you need?”

“Nothing.”

She stood to leave. My eyes followed her like a child abandoned at a train station. For the first time… I wanted her to stay.

Just as she reached the door, I called out.

“The truth.”

She turned, startled. “What?”

“I want the truth,” I said louder this time, sitting up slightly. “The truth about my parents.”

A long silence hung between us.

She exhaled, slowly. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

She walked to the door and paused. Her hand hovered over the handle. She looked back at me, eyes heavy. Then, she turned fully around and gently shut the door behind her.

CHAPTER 5

Shocked. Perplexed. Frightened. I couldn’t process the words Aunt Becca had just spoken. It was as if the very ground beneath me had shifted, leaving me reeling in confusion. Nothing about the story made sense, and yet, it ignited a fierce curiosity within me—a thirst for answers that could no longer be ignored. I suddenly had a million questions that burned through my thoughts, questions I needed to ask my parents. I wanted the truth, and I wanted it from the source.

My mind raced, but before I could speak, Aunt Becca interrupted, her voice soft but laden with sorrow. “Cintaku, I understand how much this hurts. I know this is a lot for you to process, especially as a child. But you must forgive them both, in order to heal. Marriage is sacred—an oath that’s not meant to be broken. But once that bond shatters, life spirals out of control. I’m so sorry that we’re putting you and Maliki through this.”

As Aunt Becca spoke, the door creaked open, and Dr. J. Richman walked in. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye. If I did, I feared I would see nothing but a face full of disappointment. Slowly, he moved toward us, his footsteps tentative, his presence heavy with guilt. He didn't try to mask his fear. It clung to him like a shadow—evident in his every movement and the tremor in his voice when he addressed Aunt Becca, asking for a moment alone with us.

When she quietly closed the door behind her, I wasted no time. My questions tumbled out, one after another, each more urgent than the last. Dr. Richman stared at me, his gaze filled with dread, as I bombarded him with the questions that had been clawing at my soul. After a few moments, he let out a heavy sigh and, with surprising force, spoke the words that shattered the silence.

"I know I messed up," he said, his voice trembling. "And I am truly sorry. I love you, Karla."

Before I could respond, the door swung open once more, and my sister stormed in. She gave us both a look of surprise, then spoke in an almost apologetic tone. "Sorry to interrupt, but Dr. Richman, one of the nurses said you were asking for me."

"Yes, I did," he replied, his voice now tinged with the weight of what he was about to reveal. "I need to talk to both of you. It's time for the truth. You both deserve to know." He patted the chair beside him, his hands trembling slightly as he gestured for her to sit.

To my surprise, my sister didn’t react with her usual brashness. She smiled gently and sat down next to him, radiating an unexpected calm that contrasted sharply with the chaos swirling around me.

"Where’s your mum?" he asked her, his voice softer now.

"I don’t know," she replied, her tone flat. "I haven’t seen her since this morning."

"That’s okay," he said, his hands twisting together nervously. "Maliki. Karla. My baby girls. I love you both so much, and I’m so sorry for everything you’ve had to endure."

His words hung in the air, heavy and solemn. The silence in the room was almost suffocating as we waited for him to continue. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion.

"Your mother and I met when we were young," he began, his eyes distant, as though he was reliving those years in his mind. "I was 22, and she was 19. We loved each other so deeply

that nothing could tear us apart—or so we thought. We were together for four years, and by the time Maliki was born, we were ready to get married. I took her to meet my parents in London, but they rejected her. We begged them to accept her, but it was no use. We went ahead and got married anyway and moved to Florida. At that time, she was pregnant with you, Karla."

He paused for a moment, swallowing hard. "We found a small apartment and for a while, everything was perfect. Then, one day, I was coming home from work, and I was kidnapped. The kidnappers never made it to their destination, though, and they dumped me in a forest near the Chicago border. I had no phone, no money. It took me three days to get in touch with your mother. But when I called, she didn’t answer. I spent weeks at a train station, devastated, until I managed to get a job there. When your mother was eventually released from the police station, she refused to speak to me. I understood her anger, but I needed to explain."

He stopped again, and the silence stretched between us. "For months, I tried to reach her, but every time I called, it was Becca who answered. One day, she told me that Karla was born. I was overjoyed. I wanted to see my baby girl, but when I arrived at the hospital in Florida, your mother refused to let me in. I was devastated, but then Abuela told me what had happened in my absence. My own family had planned my kidnapping. And when I didn’t return, they locked your mother up for two weeks—without food or water. She was only released when they found out she was pregnant with you."

My heart clenched as I heard the pain in his voice. "That destroyed me," he continued. "I tried to apologize, to comfort her, but she kept pushing me away. She didn’t let me see you until you were two years old, and even then, she cut me out of your lives. Until tonight."

I felt the tears spring to my eyes, unbidden. Suddenly, everything began to make sense—the distance, the anger, the walls my mother had built around herself. It was clear now, why she was so bitter and why she rejected love. The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together.

Before I could process it all, my sister spoke again, her voice steady. "Do you still love her?"

Dr. Richman smiled faintly, though his eyes were filled with sadness. "Of course."

"So, why did you marry someone else?" I asked, my words blunt, tearing through the fragile peace he was trying to build.

"Can you stop for a moment?" my sister snapped, her patience running thin.

"No," Dr. Richman said, his gaze turning to me, firm and apologetic. "Karla has every right to ask me that. I didn’t remarry. The man you think is my husband—the CEO—he’s not my partner. He’s my nephew. My brother’s son. I adopted him when his parents died in a car accident 24 years ago. He was just six years old, and I brought him to London. The CEO is him. Not me."

My mind spun with confusion, trying to process his words. We sat in stunned silence for a moment, until a knock at the door interrupted us.

"Ah! Speaking of the angel, here he is," Dr. Richman said with a smile, as he rose from his chair. "Meet Delois. Our youngest CEO of the family."

The door opened to reveal a young man with a confident smile and a friendly demeanor. "Maliki, Karla," he said, his voice warm. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."

I glanced at him, still trying to make sense of the tangled web of family secrets. "Delois, right?" My voice trembled, barely concealing the storm of emotions within me.

"Yes, Karla," he said, extending his hand with a smile.

But before I could shake it, I blurted out, "You’re the reason I resigned."

Delois’s expression shifted, but then he laughed softly. "Actually, I saw your resignation, and when I found out it was you, I tore it up."

"Why?" I asked, my confusion deepening.

"Because we’re family, Karla."

"That’s why you’ve always known," I said, more to myself than to him.

"From the very beginning," he replied with a grin. "And I didn’t lay you off in the first place, so why did you resign?"

I stared at him, my heart pounding. "Did you expect me to sit and do nothing?"

"Of course not," Delois replied, his tone softening. "But running away from your fears isn’t the answer."

As his words settled in my mind, a fire began to burn within me. My anger flared, a righteous fury rising to the surface. But why was I so angry? I wondered, as I watched them converse.

Fifteen minutes passed, and neither of them seemed to notice me anymore. Then, Delois turned to me with a puzzled look. "Why are you so quiet?"

Before I could answer, my sister, sensing my growing unease, gently intervened. "I think Karla is tired. She needs some rest. She probably needs some time alone." She took Delois’s hand and guided him toward the door.

"Are you coming, Dad?" she asked softly.

We all noticed how quickly she was adjusting to the situation. And it unsettled me more than I could admit.

"Just give me a minute," Dr. Richman replied, his eyes still on me.

Once the door closed behind them, the room fell into a heavy silence. Dr. Richman looked at me with a deep, quiet sorrow. "I know this is a lot to take in."

"You don’t know how I feel," I snapped before I could stop myself. "I never had a father who loved me. I watched my classmates' dads pick them up from school while I waited for hours, hoping my mom would show up. On my graduation day, she arrived thirty minutes before the ceremony ended. And you? You were never there. I saw my mother cry, and she had no one to turn to. She fed us, protected us, and kept us safe all on her own. So no, you don’t know how I feel."

For the first time, Dr. Richman fell silent, his face flushed with guilt. And for the first time, I felt heard.

Before I could say anything else, a voice came from the door. "Karla," it said softly. "He’s still my husband, and I still love him."

CHAPTER 6

I turned instinctively, already knowing who the voice belonged to, even before I saw her. My mother. I hadn’t seen her since I arrived at the hospital, and the sight of her nearly stopped my heart. She looked fragile, the evidence of her tears plain to see—the raw redness of her eyes and the trembling nerves that ran down the delicate skin of her wrists.

“Lizzy!” Dr. J. Richman exclaimed, his voice thick with surprise and concern. "I've been worried about you," he added, walking toward her with a tenderness that seemed foreign yet sincere. They stood face to face for a moment, both of them gazing at one another like they were seeing each other for the first time in years. His hand reached out, gently cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing across it as if he were savouring the touch. Slowly, he guided her to the wooden chair beside him, sitting her down with care. He didn't break eye contact once.

“Karla.” Her voice was soft but firm, as though she were both grounding herself and trying to steady me.

“Yes, mama?” I answered, my own voice thick with emotion.

“Karla,” she repeated, her voice wavering.

“Yes, mama,” I replied, heart in my throat.

“Karla.” She said my name once more, this time with a deeper weight to it.

“Mama,” I responded, my voice cracking as the tears began to build in my chest.

"Let it go," she said, her voice quiet but unwavering. "He is your father, and he always will be."

"Okay, ma," I whispered, feeling the warmth from her words seep into the cold, hardened place in my heart. It was as if I could feel the steam rising from that frozen part of me, slowly melting, and I didn’t know if I was ready to let it all go yet.

"Karla, I know you're angry, and you have every right to be," she continued, her voice a balm, soothing the jagged edges of my soul. "But we have to forgive ourselves before we can forgive others. Only then can there be peace. Even the word of God says we should forgive others, just as Christ Jesus has forgiven us."

As my mother spoke, her words carrying the weight of wisdom and hurt, I saw something in her eyes—a softness, a longing. It was clear to me now that despite everything, she still loved my father. This was the moment for them, after all the years of pain and separation, for them to find their way back to each other. They had been apart for so long. And maybe this was their time, the perfect moment to rebuild something that had been broken.

I stood there, still trying to process the madness of the past few months, the turmoil that had shattered everything we thought we knew. But as I listened to my mother speak, I couldn’t help but wonder: had any of us really understood the full depth of what had been happening beneath the surface?

Just as my mother’s motivational speech came to an end, the doctor arrived to check on me, his timing almost divine. I welcomed the distraction like a breath of fresh air after being buried in the heaviness of my parents' fractured past. It was the first time in six hours I felt like I could breathe without the weight of their broken marriage pressing down on me. The

doctor gave me a few routine checks, and soon after, he confirmed I would be discharged the following morning.

The morning of my release, I was welcomed back home with open arms—and a surprise feast. Abuela, my mother's mother, had returned to prepare her famous sweet chili cheese chicken sauce with hot pancake rice. It felt like the warmest embrace, every bite filling me with comfort as she fed me like I hadn't eaten in years, her love evident in each dish. For the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to enjoy the simple things.

As days passed, Dr. J. Richman began showing up at our doorstep regularly. At first, it threw me off, but slowly, it became the new normal. If my mother was happy, then I was willing to put aside my own doubts and frustrations. I wanted her to find the peace she deserved, even if it took a little time to reconcile with everything that had come to light.

A month passed, and our lives found a rhythm again. Abuela returned to her own house, and the tension between Aunt Becca and my mother remained. Some things never changed. But there were strange, beautiful noises coming from my mother's room at night—sounds I didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore. The connection between my parents, the happiness that seemed to be growing between them, made it impossible not to notice. Every morning, my mother seemed lighter, more radiant.

Despite all of this, my mind couldn’t rest. The waiting for my master's scholarship felt endless. Each day dragged on, but I held on to the hope that it would come. I had worked so hard, and I couldn’t let it slip away.

Then, on Christmas morning of 2016, my world shifted once again. It began with a loud, joyful awakening—my mother and Dr. J. Richman smiling, laughing, and my sister's incessant chatter. As per the Johnson family tradition, we went to church. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t fall asleep during the sermon. The story of Jesus and salvation resonated with me in a way it hadn’t before. Afterward, we stood on our toes for what seemed like hours, as people congratulated my parents for their reconciliation and encouraged them to renew their vows. It was beautiful, and I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope that things were finally falling into place.

Following the service, Dr. J. Richman took us to a fancy restaurant, where we met Delois, Abuela, and Aunt Becca’s family. The meal was magnificent, every bite full of flavour and warmth, but there was something more in the air—something unspoken but understood.

After dessert arrived, my mother hesitated, but everyone, including Dr. J. Richman, encouraged her to open the plate. With a look of gentle amusement, she complied. As she unwrapped it, Dr. J. Richman suddenly dropped to his knees, as though searching for something on the floor.

"Lizzy," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"J," my mother gasped, her eyes wide with disbelief as she uncovered the gift.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, his voice full of love, as if every word was a prayer.

"Yes, baby!!!" she exclaimed, tears of joy streaming down her face.

The entire room erupted in celebration. Laughter, clapping, and cheers filled the air, but for me, there was another sound that cut through it all—the sound of the envelope that held my

scholarship acceptance, the full master’s degree scholarship that I had waited for so long. It was the best gift I could have received.

In that moment, the room was sweeter than I could have ever imagined. Our family—broken but healing—had found its way back to each other. My parents were rebuilding something they had once lost, and I was finally stepping into the future I had worked so hard to create. This was the beginning of something new, something beautiful.

CHAPTER 7

The days that followed felt like golden hours—soft, glowing, surreal. Our home, once weighed down by silence and worn-out prayers, began to hum with music again. My mother would hum as she folded laundry, sometimes even dancing a little in the kitchen, and Dr. J. Richman—well, “J” as we’d all started calling him again—was always around, helping with dishes, fixing the squeaky screen door, or just making her laugh. A sound I hadn’t realized I missed so much.

Despite the newfound peace, something stirred quietly in me. A kind of restlessness that refused to be soothed.

I spent more time in my room, oscillating between celebration and a low hum of dread. The scholarship envelope sat on my desk like a trophy, unopened since that Christmas morning. I don’t know why I hadn’t ripped it apart right then and there—maybe I was afraid it wasn’t real. Or maybe, in some strange way, I didn’t want anything to change just yet.

A month later, I found myself sitting on the front steps with a cup of Abuela’s ginger tea, watching the night settle over the neighbourhood like a warm blanket. That’s when my sister, Maliki, plopped down beside me.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she said, sipping from her own mug.

“What thing?”

“Where you disappear in your head.”

I looked at her. Lani was only sixteen but had always been older in spirit—sharp-eyed, brutally honest, and able to read me like a diary left wide open.

“I’m not disappearing,” I lied.

She nudged me with her shoulder. “Karla. Come on. You’ve been quiet for days. What’s up?”

I hesitated. Then, with a deep breath, I spoke. “What if leaving breaks everything again?”

She didn’t answer immediately, just stared out at the street. A few houses down, someone had left their Christmas lights up, blinking red and green in the darkness.

“Mom’s strong,” she said finally. “Stronger than we gave her credit for. And J—he’s trying. Maybe it’s okay for you to go chase your dreams. Maybe... maybe that’s what healing looks like too.”

I smiled at her, half in gratitude, half in awe. How did she get so wise?

Back in my room, I finally opened the envelope. My hands trembled as I peeled the flap open, unfolding the letter carefully, like it was ancient scripture. And there it was, in black and white:

Dear Karla Johnson,

Congratulations! You have been awarded a full scholarship to pursue your Master’s degree in International Relations at Harvard University…….

I stopped reading. The tears came fast, not from sadness, but from overwhelming relief. I pressed the paper to my chest and let myself feel it—all of it. The validation. The hope. The terrifying thrill of leaving.

The next morning, I told my mother.

We were at the kitchen table, the sunlight spilling in through the window, catching the edge of her engagement ring and making it sparkle like a star.

“I got the scholarship,” I said simply.

She looked up from her cup, eyes wide. “Oh my God. Karla!” She stood so quickly her chair screeched backward. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?!”

I shrugged, suddenly shy.

She grabbed my face in her hands, kissing my forehead over and over. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

J entered the kitchen just then, a towel thrown over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“She got it!” my mom beamed. “The scholarship!”

J’s eyes lit up, and to my surprise, he pulled me into a hug. “Well damn,” he said. “Looks like we’re celebrating tonight.”

And we did. A quiet dinner, just us, with more laughter than I’d heard in years. But when everyone had gone to bed and the house was finally still, I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.

Because the letter had come with something else. Something unexpected.

A start date.

Three weeks from now.

CHAPTER 8

Three weeks.

That was all the time I had to say goodbye to everything I had only just begun to understand again.

The days started passing faster. The calendar, once a blank canvas of unhurried mornings, now filled with appointments, to-do lists, and questions I didn’t yet have answers for. There were forms to complete, documents to scan, immunizations to update, and flights to book. Harvard didn’t wait, even for girls with fragile family hearts.

And yet, in the middle of the chaos, I found myself stalling.

I’d pick up a suitcase, then set it down. Open drawers, then close them without taking anything out. My things were scattered like my emotions—half-stuffed bags, old journals, a faded photo of me and Dad from before everything cracked.

I sat on the floor of my room one afternoon, folding sweaters and trying to make decisions. That’s when Maliki burst in like she always did—no knocking, just her usual whirlwind of presence.

She flopped onto my bed, arms stretched wide. “So, are you freaking out yet?”

I looked up at her from a half-zipped duffel. “Not externally.”

She smirked. “Harvard, huh? Fancy. Think you’ll become president or something?”

“God, no. I don’t even like group projects.”

We laughed. It felt good. Easy. But then her face softened, and she sat up straighter. “I’m gonna miss you, Kar.”

Something about the way she said it—so quietly, so unguarded—hit me right in the throat. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

We sat like that for a while, in the silence between sisters, where nothing needed to be explained.

The night before my flight, my mother came into my room holding a small box wrapped in ivory paper. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes sparkled with something between pride and grief.

“I was saving this for your graduation,” she said. “But I think now’s the right time.”

I opened it slowly. Inside was a delicate gold chain with a small pendant in the shape of the African continent—simple, elegant, strong.

“It was mine when I was your age,” she said. “Wore it when I left home for the first time. I thought maybe… you’d like to carry it with you.”

I didn’t say anything. I just hugged her. Tight.

“Promise me something,” she whispered into my hair. “No matter what happens out there, you come back to yourself. Don’t lose her.”

I promised.

The airport was chaos. Families reuniting, lovers saying teary goodbyes, children melting down over lost toys. My heart thudded like a drum as we stood at the gate—My whole family.

I hugged each of them in turn. I started with my aunt Becca and Uncle Alvyn

For the first time, my aunt was speechless. Her silence said more than words ever could, while her husband gently rubbed her hands in quiet support. I could taste the fear and salt of her unshed tears in the air. When she hugged me, it was so tight I could feel the sharp lines of her ribs—her body trembling as she fought to hold back the flood. Slowly, she let go, but the weight of that moment lingered. Uncle Alvyn hugged me too as he said, “You don’t have to be anxious. Your aunt is an onions. You will do great. This I know.”

Maliki slipped a folded piece of paper into my coat pocket. “Don’t read it until you’re in the air,” she ordered.

Mom kissed my cheeks and held my face in her hands like she had when I was little. “Fly high, baby girl,” she said, voice cracking.

And J—he surprised me. Not with words, but with a simple nod and a hand on my shoulder, firm and fatherly. A gesture that said, I’m here. I see you. And I’m proud.

Then, I was walking away. One foot in front of the other. Leaving behind the home we had just learned to be whole in again.

Finally, we got to the airport and

They watched me as I passed the immigration and for the first time, Thirty minutes into the flight, I unfolded Maliki’s letter.

Dear Karla,

You’ve always been the brave one, even when you didn’t think so. I’ve watched you hold our family together without even realizing it. Now, it’s your time to go shine. Do me a favour: Be big, loud and brilliant out there like you’ve always. Just don’t forget us little people back home. I’ll keep Mom and Aunt Becca in check, but if they start singing gospel too loud, you owe me a gift from Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Love you forever, Malibaby.

I laughed through tears, head resting against the cool window, clouds floating beneath me like whispers of everything I was leaving behind.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was running away from something. I felt like I was running toward something.

CHAPTER 9

Harvard didn’t look real the first time I saw it.

The old buildings rose like something out of a movie, all ivy and stone and impossible history. Everything felt bigger, colder, louder. People moved fast here, with purpose and coffee cups and eyes that didn’t linger long.

I stood on the edge of Harvard Yard that first morning, scarf wrapped tight around my neck, wondering how I’d gotten here. My breath came out in little clouds. It was early January, and the snow hadn’t started falling yet, but the cold had already begun to claim the bones of the city.

My dorm was in a graduate residence near Mount Auburn Street—small, creaky, and blessed with a radiator that made a sound like it was choking every time it turned on. But it was mine.

I unpacked slowly, almost ceremoniously. My mother’s necklace went on first, resting against my collarbone like armor. Maliki’s letter was tucked into the drawer beside my bed. I pinned a photo of us—Mom, Maliki, J, and me at the Christmas dinner—to the corkboard above my desk. That was my grounding point. My home base.

Orientation week was a blur of coffee-fueled lectures, awkward icebreakers, and walking into the wrong building more times than I cared to admit. Everyone seemed to have already read every book, written two theses, and interned with the U.N. I kept thinking, Do I belong here?

But then came Professor Damaris El-Khoury’s class on Postcolonial Global Structures. She walked in, tall and confident, with a voice like jazz—cool, controlled, and full of rhythm. Her first words were:

“The world won’t bend for your comfort. So either learn to stand, or change the damn world.”

That sentence did something to me. Woke something.

The real test came in week three. Our first debate. Topic: Is global aid modern colonialism? I had thoughts—God, I had thoughts. But I froze. Sitting in a packed auditorium, my mouth dry, heart rattling against my ribs, I just… couldn’t speak.

Later that night, I called home.

Maliki picked up on the first ring. “Talk to me.”

“I bombed it,” I said.

“Bombed what?”

“The debate. The whole class. Maybe the entire purpose of my life.”

She laughed. “Girl, relax. Did you die?”

“No…”

“Then it’s not the end. You’re gonna be fine. Just remember who you are. You’re Karla freaking Johnson. The girl who stitched our family back together with duct tape and faith. Harvard’s lucky to have you.”

Her words held me together.

Slowly, things got better.

I started speaking up. Not all at once—but enough. A sentence here. A challenge there. And then one day, I raised my hand before anyone else did.

I made a friend—Rina, a Kenyan-American in the Public Policy program. She had box braids, fierce eyeliner, and zero tolerance for bullshit. We bonded over overpriced coffee and the fact that neither of us could stand our dry-ass Economic Diplomacy professor.

“I miss home food,” she told me one night as we walked back from class.

“I miss everything about home,” I said.

“You know what that means?” she smiled. “We’re gonna have to build something new here. Just for us.”

That weekend, we cooked together in the communal kitchen. I made sweet chili chicken sauce—Abuela style. Rina made jollof rice. The smell pulled other students out of their rooms like moths to warmth.

By midnight, our hallway was full of laughter and full bellies. We played Burna Boy and Lauryn Hill, and for a moment, it felt like a little corner of home had followed me across the ocean.

On the first morning it snowed, I stood at my window, watching the flakes fall in slow motion. Everything was quiet. Clean. Like the world had been forgiven overnight.

I pulled on boots, wrapped myself up, and stepped outside. I walked through the Yard, past Widener Library, past the statue they call John Harvard but who isn’t really John Harvard. I paused under a tree whose branches looked dusted in sugar.

And for the first time since arriving, I let myself believe it: I belonged here.

CHAPTER 10

It happened on a Tuesday.

A forgettable kind of day—grey sky, heavy boots, too much caffeine. I had two papers due, one group project hanging by a thread, and my brain felt like soggy bread by the time I dragged myself to the library.

I wasn’t even planning to stay long. I just needed one book—“Neocolonialism in Post-Soviet States”—and then I was going to find somewhere quiet and cry into a cinnamon muffin.

But fate, as always, had its own plans.

The book wasn’t on the shelf.

Instead, it was in the hands of a guy sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall like he owned the place. He was flipping through it, head tilted slightly, completely immersed. I recognized him—sort of. He was in my International Institutions class, usually sitting in the back, always with some kind of graphic tee under his blazer, like he was trying to say I read Kant, but I also listen to indie rock and overthink my dreams.

“Hey,” I said, hovering.

He looked up. Blue eyes. Surprised smile. Dimples—rude.

“Oh. Sorry—did you need this?” he asked, holding the book up.

“Yeah. Kind of urgently.”

“Neocolonialism emergency?”

“That’s the one.”

He grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll finish skimming this chapter, and then you can have it. Five minutes.”

I nodded, ready to sulk nearby. But then he scooted over and patted the spot next to him. “You can sit. I don’t bite.”

I hesitated, then gave in. Something about him felt… safe. Annoying, maybe. But safe.

“Karla,” I offered.

“Cam,” he said, offering his hand.

His palm was warm, a little rough. We shook hands like we were sealing a deal we didn’t know the terms of yet.

The five minutes turned into forty.

We started talking—about the class, the reading, then everything else. Turns out, Cam was from Vermont. A political science grad turned international relations hopeful who had taken a gap year to work on a reforestation project in Costa Rica.

“So you’re one of those save-the-world types,” I teased.

“Only on Tuesdays,” he replied.

I should have known then that he was going to be a problem.

We started running into each other more after that. In class. In the cafeteria. Once, outside a lecture hall where he stood holding two coffees like he just happened to have an extra.

“You look like you need this,” he said, handing it to me without waiting for permission. I didn’t say thank you. I just took a sip and nearly groaned.

“Okay,” I muttered. “You live another day.”

He smirked. “It’s the little wins.”

Cam had this way of talking to me like I was the most interesting page in a novel he couldn’t put down. But he never pushed. Never crowded. Just… showed up.

One night, during midterms, we both ended up in the library again. He slid into the seat across from me without a word, opened his laptop, and passed me a chocolate bar.

“Dark,” he said. “You look like a dark chocolate kind of woman.”

“You’re not wrong,” I murmured, tearing it open.

We worked in silence for hours, the kind that felt companionable, not awkward. At one point, I looked up and found him watching me. Not in a creepy way—more like he was studying me, trying to solve something quietly beautiful.

“What?” I asked, lips quirking.

“You’re intense when you’re thinking,” he said. “It’s kind of intimidating.”

“Good. Keeps people on their toes.”

He leaned back, eyes crinkling. “Noted.”

We didn’t kiss for another three weeks.

It was after a night walk through Cambridge, snow catching in our hair, our hands brushing every so often but never quite holding. We talked about family—his divorced parents, my mom and J’s second shot, Maliki, who he already called “Mini General” after one FaceTime.

We stopped at a bridge. The river below was iced over, moonlight catching on its surface like secrets waiting to break free.

Cam turned to me, his voice barely above the wind.

“I don’t want to rush anything,” he said. “But I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

I didn’t answer with words. I just stepped closer and let him.

His lips were soft, tentative at first. Then deeper. Warmer. Like he’d been waiting to find the exact right note in a song and had finally struck it.

When we pulled apart, he looked stunned.

“Wow,” he breathed.

I smiled, fingers brushing the side of his face. “Yeah. Wow.”

It wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever is. He didn’t understand every part of me, and sometimes he asked dumb questions like “Is your hair different again?” and “Wait, what’s plantain?”

But he listened. He tried. He saw me.

And slowly, I let myself be seen.

CHAPTER 11

Falling in love was easier than I thought it would be.

It wasn’t some cinematic whirlwind. It was quiet, like water seeping through cracks—slow, certain, and impossible to ignore. Cam and I found each other in the small moments: between classes, between cups of coffee, between nights that ended too late and mornings that started too early.

He became a constant I hadn’t asked for, but quickly realized I needed.

We studied together, argued about political theory (he still believed in the UN a little too much for my liking), and watched terrible indie films he swore were “deep.” I made him jollof rice that nearly burned his tongue. He made me pancakes shaped like the African continent.

“I tried,” he said with a sheepish smile, holding up a slightly lopsided Ghana.

“Looks more like Greenland,” I smirked.

He kissed my forehead. “Love is in the effort, Karla.”

And it was.

But love also brought out shadows.

One Saturday, we were walking through Harvard Square, hand in hand, when a girl called out from across the street.

“Cam!”

He froze. I felt his hand tighten just slightly.

The girl was tall, sharp-featured, blonde hair tucked into a beanie. She crossed over with a too-easy smile, the kind that said I know something you don’t.

“Hey, stranger,” she said. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Hey,” Cam replied, voice neutral.

“This your girlfriend?” she asked, glancing at me like I was a quiz she was about to grade.

“Yes,” Cam said simply, without hesitation. “This is Karla.”

I nodded, polite but cool. Something about her rubbed me the wrong way.

After she walked off—leaving a faint scent of Chanel and smug history—I raised an eyebrow. “Ex?”

He sighed. “Sophia. We dated undergrad. Ended messy.”

“Messy how?”

“She didn’t know who she was unless I was there to define her. It got toxic.”

I didn’t press. But something lodged in my chest that night, an invisible splinter I couldn’t quite get out.

The first fight came a week later.

We were in the library again. I was buried in research. He kept talking—about his thesis, about a professor, about some conference. I barely looked up.

“Are you even listening to me?” he asked suddenly.

I looked at him, tired and sharp. “Cam, I’m trying to meet a deadline.”

“And I’m trying to talk to you. About something important.”

I slammed my laptop shut. “What is it then? Go ahead. Talk.”

He blinked. “Never mind.”

“No, say it. You picked the fight, Cam.”

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I feel like there’s this part of you I’ll never reach. Like you let me in just enough to make me think I matter, but not enough to know I do.”

The words hit like cold water.

I swallowed. “I’ve spent most of my life being the one to hold everything together. I don’t always know how to be the one who’s… held.”

He sat back, softer now. “Karla, I’m not asking for everything all at once. I’m just asking to not be a visitor in your life.”

Silence stretched between us.

Finally, I spoke, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this the easy way.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not here for easy. I’m here for real.”

We didn’t kiss that night.

We sat side by side in the library until it closed. We walked home without holding hands. But something shifted—a door cracked open. A little more light poured through.

The next morning, he sent me a message.

Cam: You are still mad at me?

Me: No. You just make me feel too much sometimes.

Cam: Good. I’d rather be too much than nothing at all.

Me: Come over. I’m making plantain.

Cam: I’m already outside your door.

Love, I was learning, wasn’t always soft. Sometimes it scraped against old wounds. But when it was right, it stayed. It healed. Slowly, but surely.

And Cam… he was still here.

CHAPTER 12

The rain was falling again.

Not in the dramatic, blizzardy kind of way—but soft, steady. Like the sky was remembering how to be gentle. It drifted past the window in slow spirals, kissing the glass like it, too, longed to be held. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of garlic, toasted bread, and something else I couldn’t quite name—something tender, like anticipation.

I sat by the window, wrapped in my oversized sweater, legs tucked beneath me like a secret I hadn’t decided to share yet. My hands were still warm from the dishwater, but my chest ached in that hollow, humming way that meant I was feeling too much and trying too hard not to show it.

Cam was in the kitchen, humming to himself—low and unpolished, but soothing. It was some half-remembered melody, probably a song his mom used to sing or one he’d heard once and never forgotten. He cooked like he loved—messy, genuine, with way too much of everything. Pasta with too much garlic, toast just this side of burnt, and a bottle of cheap red wine he insisted was “complex, not bad.”

He caught me watching him and smiled without saying anything.

We ate on the couch, plates balanced on our knees. Our laughter started small and grew into something bigger, something freer. We joked about childhood meals, argued over music, teased each other in the quiet way you do when you know the person beside you won’t leave if you push just a little. His knee touched mine beneath the blanket, and neither of us moved.

“So,” he said, clearing the dishes. “I was thinking… maybe we don’t go back out tonight.”

I looked up. The snow was still falling outside, but the silence inside had changed. Something had shifted. My heartbeat tapped against my ribs like it wanted out.

“Okay,” I said. Just one word, but it held so much more.

Cam crossed the room like he was stepping into a cathedral—reverent, careful. When he stopped in front of me, he didn’t reach for me. Not right away. His eyes searched mine, the kind of look that asked without asking.

“Only if you want to.”

I stood slowly, letting my fingers find his.

“I do,” I said.

We moved toward the bedroom like it was sacred ground.

No fireworks. No music swelling in the background. Just breath. Just the softness of this moment stretching between us, fragile and electric.

He kissed me slowly—no urgency, no expectation. Just discovery. Like every part of me was a sentence he wanted to read out loud and memorize. His lips brushed mine again and again until my hands found their way into his hair, curling into the back of his neck.

There were moments of silence so full they felt like speech—his hands at my waist, the sound of my sweater sliding to the floor, the way we both paused, like we were checking to make sure the world hadn’t stopped.

His fingertips mapped me gently, like he didn’t want to miss a single part. My body responded in ways I hadn’t expected—not just with heat or wanting, but with trust. With something deeper than desire.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, forehead resting against mine.

I nodded, breathless. “Yeah. I’m… good.”

He smiled, brushing his nose against mine. “Tell me if that changes.” I did.

We moved slowly, like we were writing a new language—one neither of us had spoken, but somehow both of us understood. There were laughs—soft, embarrassed chuckles when we bumped knees or fumbled with the sheets. There were quiet sighs. Breath caught between skin and skin. A closeness that felt more emotional than physical, more prayer than act.

And when we finally gave in to that rhythm, when our bodies moved together like waves meeting the shore, I felt something inside me soften. Unclench. I hadn’t even known it was clenched.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And it was tender. And I think that made it beautiful. Later, we lay tangled in the sheets, the snow still falling outside, coating the world in hush. Cam traced lazy circles on my shoulder, his voice barely above a murmur. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

“Like what?” I asked, blinking up at the ceiling. He paused, searching.

“Like being safe and seen at the same time.”

I closed my eyes and leaned into him, forehead against his chest, heart open in a way that terrified me.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Me too.”

That night, sleep came slowly. I lay awake for a long time, his breath warm against the back of my neck, his arm slung over my waist like he belonged there. And maybe, just maybe, he did.

CHAPTER 13

Morning came slow, as if the world itself wasn’t quite ready to wake.

The storm had passed, but it left behind the scent of wet earth and a quiet that felt almost accusatory. The kind of silence that asks questions without saying a word. Pale light filtered in through the broken windowpane, soft as breath, and touched everything with a reluctant kind of grace.

Cam slept beside me, one hand still curled near my hip like he was afraid to lose the space I occupied. I watched him for a long time—his lashes, his mouth, the faint scruff that darkened his jaw. He looked peaceful. Innocent, even. But I wasn’t sure if I believed it anymore.

I slid out from under the sheets without waking him. My body protested, sore in ways that felt both earned and unwanted. Each step was a conversation with the night before. I needed time. Space. Something to quiet the questions.

The mirror in the bathroom didn’t lie.

My hair was a mess of storm-tangled curls. There were faint bruises on my thighs, on my ribs, along the inside of my arms—fingerprints turned to watercolour. I touched one absently. Not in fear. Just wonder. Like I couldn’t quite believe the person in the reflection was me.

I’d never let anyone take me like that. Not before Cam. And maybe that’s why everything felt… altered. As if something inside me had been rearranged without permission, and now I didn’t know where to put the pieces.

I found his shirt on the floor, slipped it over my head. It smelled like him—salt, smoke, and a whisper of something warm, like cardamom. He always carried heat with him, even in stillness.

When I stepped back into the room, he was awake. Eyes open, watching me.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hey.”

His voice was soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure which version of me he was talking to yet.

“You left the bed.”

“I needed air.”

He sat up slowly, raking a hand through his hair. “Are we okay?”

I looked at him for a long time before answering. “I don’t know.”

Cam didn’t flinch. He just nodded, like he’d already prepared for the possibility.

“I meant what I said last night,” he told me. “All of it.”

I nodded. “I know. That’s the part that scares me.”

He got up, walked over, closed the space between us with measured steps. When he reached me, he didn’t touch me—not at first. Just stood there. Waiting.

“Talk to me,” he said.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then just be here.”

His hand finally found mine, and I let him hold it.

For now.

We stood in silence, the two of us anchored in a room that still smelled of rain and want and uncertainty. And as I looked into his eyes—those quiet, stormless eyes—I realized something terrifying:

I didn’t want to let go.

Even if I wasn’t sure what I was holding onto.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the morning.

He made coffee. Black for him, milk and sugar for me. No words passed between us, but he remembered. That mattered more than I wanted to admit.

I sat by the window, legs pulled to my chest, watching the river swell and glisten in the distance. Everything outside looked washed—clean, as if the storm had wiped the world smooth. But inside me, nothing felt scrubbed or new. Just… still. Like the calm before another wave I couldn’t name.

Cam moved like he didn’t want to disturb me. Careful. Silent. A shadow shaped like devotion.

It should’ve made me feel safe.

It didn’t.

“I need to go into town later,” he said finally, standing near the doorway. “The shop needs a few things.”

I nodded.

“You wanna come?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

He waited. Then left the room.

Something inside me bristled at how easily he let me go.

The hours slipped. I stayed wrapped in his shirt, staring at the river until it blurred. My body still hummed with a memory I hadn’t asked for—a ghost of his hands, the press of his lips, the tremble in my own voice when I whispered his name like it meant salvation.

It had felt like that.

Like salvation.

But maybe salvation wasn’t always gentle. Maybe sometimes it looked like drowning with your eyes wide open.

I found myself in the bathroom again. Looking. Searching. Like the mirror could explain me to myself.

Then I saw it.

Not a bruise. Not a scratch. A mark.

Faint but real, beneath the curve of my ribs. A place he’d kissed me slowly before biting down hard enough to leave proof.

I touched it, and something flared up in my chest—sharp, electric. Need? Fear? Both?

The front door creaked open.

Cam was back.

I didn’t realize how long he’d been gone.

He stepped inside with a paper bag, his eyes instantly finding me like they were magnetized.

“I got you something,” he said, holding the bag up.

I said nothing.

He walked toward me slowly and pulled out a glass bottle. Coconut water. The kind I loved. The one from the little shop down by the river bend that only carried them on Thursdays.

“It’s not much,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I thought of you.”

I took it from him. Fingers brushed. Something sparked and died all at once.

“You always think of me,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

That silence again. Heavy. Tired. Full of what we couldn’t name.

Then I asked it—quiet, but pointed:

“Have you ever loved someone so much it scared you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, lips parting like he was searching for the right version of the truth.

“Yes,” he said.

I watched him. “And did they love you back?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“They said they did.”

The ache in my chest doubled.

I twisted the cap off the bottle, took a sip, and let the silence settle again.

Then I asked something I didn’t mean to ask.

“Am I her?”

Cam’s whole body stilled.

“No,” he said, too quickly. “You’re not her.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m competing with someone I’ve never met?”

He stepped forward, eyes darkening—not in anger, but in something more dangerous: guilt.

“I’ve never felt anything like this with anyone,” he said. “That’s what scares me. Not her. Not the past. You.”

The truth of it hit like thunder.

He was afraid of me.

Not because I was cruel or reckless or wrong.

Because I mattered.

And maybe I was afraid of him for the same reason.

“Okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

He reached for my hand again. This time, I let him.

And for the first time that day, I held on tight.

CHAPTER 14

By the time the leaves began to fall in earnest, we still hadn’t talked about it.

Summer had folded into itself quietly, and in its place came a slow chill that settled into our bones. Life resumed, or something like it. We moved around each other like dancers caught in the wrong rhythm—close, then not. Touching, but not holding.

We didn’t fight. We didn’t confess. We just… let time pass.

Then November came, and with it, my family.

The house was too small for all of them, but somehow they made it fit—sleeping bags on the floor, coats thrown over every chair, laughter that echoed down the hallways like it had always belonged there.

Cam met them for the first time on Thanksgiving morning.

He showed up with a pumpkin pie he didn’t bake and a bottle of red wine he couldn’t pronounce. Still, my mother hugged him like she’d known him for years.

“You’re taller than she said,” she smiled, pulling back to study him. “And better looking.”

“Mum,” I hissed under my breath, cheeks warm.

Cam just laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

It was strange seeing him in the soft, warm light of my family’s world—wearing a borrowed sweater, barefoot in the kitchen, helping Aunt Becca stir the gravy while Uncle Alvyn snored gently on the couch. He looked like he belonged.

But I knew better.

Later, while the turkey rested and everyone hovered with plates in hand, Maliki pulled me aside.

Her eyes were bright, lips freshly glossed, and there was a ring on her finger I hadn’t seen before.

“I’m getting married,” she blurted out, barely able to contain herself. “To someone British, can you believe it?”

I stared at her, blinking. “What?”

“His name’s Simon. He’s posh and impossibly nice, and I think Mum’s already in love with him.”

“You’re… getting married?”

She nodded, giggling. “And we’re doing it in Scotland. Next spring.”

The words floated in the air, glittery and sweet, but I felt something inside me crack. A familiar hollowness, as though I was watching someone else’s dream unfold while mine stayed silent.

I hugged her. Tight. Maybe too tight.

“I’m happy for you,” I whispered, though my chest felt heavy.

An hour later, as the pie was being cut and Cam sat politely laughing at one of Alvyn’s terrible jokes, Mum leaned in toward me, wine glass in hand and a strange look on her face.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, almost like it hurt.

I looked at her, already bracing.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

“For… J?” I asked, blinking too fast. She nodded. “Yes.”

“Mum.”

“I know,” she whispered quickly, eyes darting around to make sure no one else was listening. “It wasn’t planned. But… it’s happening.”

Before I could process that, I saw J standing outside—on the back porch, cigarette in hand. And Cam walking out to join him.

I watched them through the glass door, their outlines dim against the fading light.

J said something first, head tilted back, smoke curling from his mouth.

Cam answered with a nod. Calm. Measured.

Then something shifted.

J leaned in. Not aggressive, but close enough that I couldn’t breathe.

Cam didn’t flinch. He just looked at him—clear-eyed, unshaken.

And then I saw Cam’s mouth form the words.

“I love her.”

Simple. Certain.

J stepped back. His face unreadable.

I turned away before I could see more.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed—Maliki giggling in the guest room, Mum humming softly in the bath, Becca and Alvyn passed out with half-drunk cider in their hands —Cam found me in the kitchen, still in my dress, barefoot on the cold tile.

“I meant it,” he said.

I didn’t look at him.

“When I said it to J. I meant every word.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Do you?”

I nodded, then finally met his eyes.

“I believe you,” I whispered. “I just don’t know what to do with it.”

He stepped closer.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just let it be real.”

I leaned into him, my cheek against his chest, hearing the steady thrum of his heart. Solid. Present.

Outside, the wind picked up, scattering the last of the autumn leaves across the porch.

Inside, in that fragile quiet, I let myself be held.

Not because I had answers.

But because for the first time in months, I wasn’t afraid to be touched.

CHAPTER 15

After Thanksgiving, the house exhaled.

The laughter, the clutter, the half-washed wine glasses—all disappeared with my family. Cam and I stood in the quiet like survivors of a storm, smiling in that awkward, exhausted way that said we made it… barely. But the truth was harder to say aloud: we hadn’t talked about what mattered.

Still.

And yet, December came anyway. With it came his world.

Christmas with Cam’s family.

I wasn’t sure what I expected—something cold, maybe distant, formal in that tight-lipped, upper-crust way—but what I got was… different.

Warm air, loud voices. A kitchen that smelled like spiced lamb and coconut macaroons. Laughter that rang out in two distinct accents—his mum with a bright Australian lilt, his dad with that lilting, poetic Scottish bite that made everything sound like a blessing or a warning. And most surprising of all?

They loved me.

I mean really, really loved me.

His mum, Leila, was the kind of woman who hugged first and asked questions later. She ran her hand over my braids and said, “Beautiful,” without a trace of discomfort, like she'd been waiting to meet someone like me her whole life.

His dad, Graham, offered me whiskey within ten minutes and tried—tried—to teach me how to pronounce “loch” properly before laughing and saying, “Ah, doesn’t matter. You’ve got better rhythm than any of us. You'll be fine.”

They weren't racist. Not even quietly. I watched closely for it—waiting for the wince, the sideways glance, the misplaced compliment—but it never came. Instead, I got stories.

Over roast duck and too much plum pudding, Leila pulled out an old box and spread Cam’s baby pictures across the kitchen table like tarot cards.

Chubby cheeks, dirt-streaked knees, gap-toothed grins.

“He was such a soft thing,” she sighed. “Always running into things, always crying, always looking for someone to hold onto.”

I smiled, tracing one photo with my finger.

Then I felt her eyes on me.

“You love him, don’t you?”

I looked up, startled.

“Yes,” I said, too quickly.

She gave me a look. Not judgmental—just… knowing.

“But something’s not sitting right between you two.”

I blinked.

She poured more tea, quiet and casual, like she hadn’t just cracked open a door I kept bolting shut.

“You know,” she said gently, “people think love is fire. Big, bright, dramatic. But real love— the God kind—is more like water. It seeps into all the places fire can’t reach. It doesn’t burn. It cleans. It stays.”

I didn’t say anything.

She sipped her tea, then added, “You can’t wait for love to be easy. Or perfect. Jesus didn’t. He chose love with his eyes open. That’s what makes it sacred.”

Then she stood, kissed my forehead, and walked away.

A few minutes later, I saw her in the hallway—phone pressed to her ear, voice low.

“Fix it,” she said. “Before you become us.”

Cam’s dad, bless him, tried so hard after that.

Tried to keep me distracted.

He gave me a tour of his absurd bonsai collection. Told me about the time he proposed to Leila with a ring made out of sea glass. Showed me his prized vintage whiskey like it was a newborn baby.

But I wasn’t really listening. Not fully.

Because Cam had disappeared. And I was starting to feel the edges of panic bite into me. Was he mad? Did he overhear his mum? Was this too much?

When his parents finally left, it was dark. Snow clung to the windows, soft and silent.

I closed the door, heart racing.

And there he was.

Standing in the middle of the living room, breathing heavy like he’d just run upstairs and back again.

“Cam—”

He didn’t speak.

He walked straight to me and kissed me. Long. Fierce. Full.

When he pulled back, his face was flushed, eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse. “And I’m not losing you. Not now. Not over silence. Not over fear.”

I tried to push away—just a little. Just enough to protect the small, fragile thing inside me. But he pulled me closer. His grip was firm, grounding.

“You won’t have your way this time,” he said, low. “I’m not letting you go just because you’re scared.”

He looked so serious.

So red in the face.

So completely and utterly mine. And honestly?

He looked sexy as hell.

I laughed—sharp and sudden and honest.

Then I kissed him again.

Not because everything was fixed.

But because, for the first time, I wanted to stop running.

CHAPTER 16

Spring came like an apology.

The kind that doesn’t use words, just colour—soft greens, wildflowers blooming with reckless abandon, warm air that held the scent of rain and promise. It had been nearly a year since the storm that changed everything.

And now, we were heading to Scotland.

Maliki was getting married.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

It was the kind of joy that didn’t feel fragile. Just real.

Cam held my hand on the plane, fingers interlaced loosely, like we’d always done it. His thumb moved in slow circles against mine, his eyes flicking over the clouds outside. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. Everything between us had grown quieter, steadier— less about fixing, more about being

When we landed, it was like stepping into a painting. Simon’s family home rested on the edge of the Highlands, surrounded by hills that rolled like waves and air so clean it made you want to start over. His family greeted us with warmth that felt worn-in and genuine—open arms, thick accents, and the kind of joy that made you believe love could, in fact, be simple.

They adored Maliki.

I mean truly adored her.

His mother, Margaret, hugged her like she was already blood. His father clapped her on the back and asked to see her sketchbook. She pulled it out shyly—pages filled with charcoal, ink, stories that poured out of her hands. They gathered around her like she was the bride and the gallery.

Simon never stopped looking at her.

The way he held her hand, the way he leaned in when she spoke, the way he called her “my girl” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was happy.

And for once, she didn’t feel like she had to prove it.

Cam’s parents arrived the second night. We embraced like old friends. Leila handed me a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts with a wink. Graham asked Cam if he was “still behaving himself” and ruffled his hair like he was twelve again.

Then came her.

Cam’s sister, Elspeth.

She walked in with the kind of presence that announced itself without trying—long curls, sharp eyes, and a husband who looked like he played rugby on weekends and wrote poetry in the dark.

They were lovely. Sweet. Curious.

Over dinner, they told us how they met—at a bookshop in Edinburgh, both reaching for the same battered copy of Wuthering Heights. They got married under a weeping willow, barefoot, with a harpist playing Leonard Cohen in the background.

Elspeth kept watching me.

Not unkindly. Just... intrigued.

“You’re something,” she said suddenly, after I made an offhand joke about Cam’s inability to fold fitted sheets.

I blinked. “Something... good?”

“Oh, very,” she grinned. “I like you. You’ve got a quiet bite. It suits him.”

Cam flushed.

Actually blushed.

And I stared at him like I was seeing him for the first time.

Elspeth laughed. “Would you look at that? The boy has become a man.”

I laughed too, loud and warm, as Cam tried to hide his face behind a wine glass.

The wedding was perfect.

Maliki glowed. Not metaphorically. She glowed. Her dress was simple, off-shoulder, ivory silk that caught the light and made her look like a painting in motion. J walked her down the aisle, steady and proud. For once, his usual cool was replaced with something softer. There was a tremble in his lip. I noticed.

We all noticed.

My whole family sat on the front row—Mum heavily pregnant, cheeks round and eyes shining. She kept one hand on her belly the whole time. Aunt Becca leaned over and whispered, “They’re having twins. Don’t tell. Just act surprised.”

I almost choked on a laugh.

We pinky-swore like kids.

Then the vows started.

Simon went first. His voice didn’t shake, not once. He talked about art and coffee stains on her jeans. He said she taught him how to be present, how to sit still with love instead of chasing it.

Maliki answered with a whisper that grew stronger with every word. She promised messy mornings and wild loyalty. She said, “I knew you were my person when you asked about my soul instead of my body.”

I cried.

We all did.

The priest blessed them. They kissed. And just like that, they were man and wife.

I hugged my sister tighter than I ever had. “You did it,” I whispered. “You really did it.”

She just held me and laughed through her tears.

At the reception, I stood as chief bridesmaid, my glass trembling only slightly.

I told stories.

Funny ones. About Maliki’s obsession with cereal as a kid. About the time she tried to sell me “original leaf art” for five cents. Everyone laughed.

But then I paused.

Looked at her—so full of light and love, more woman than girl now.

And I said, “You’ve always been wild. Wild and brave and made of stardust and thunder. And today, I see it in your eyes—you’re ready. You’re not running. You’re standing still, with someone who sees you. And I just want you to know… I got you. No matter what.”

Her eyes filled. She nodded, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. And that was when I knew.

She was ready.

Not because the dress fit, or the kiss was perfect.

But because love had settled into her. Deep and quiet.

Like water.

CHAPTER 17

We were supposed to be packing.

Instead, Cam was missing—and so was J.

I found them in the sitting room of Simon’s family home. Cam sitting forward, elbows on his knees. J beside him, unbothered, arms crossed like he was guarding something invisible. And between them—my mother, belly now smaller, skin glowing like she'd swallowed sunlight.

Cam was speaking, but I couldn’t hear what he said.

Whatever it was, it made my mum smile—soft, proud. That kind of smile that starts from behind the eyes. J didn’t say much, but I caught the twitch of something like approval on his lips. Not easy to earn. Definitely not lightly given.

Aunt Becca appeared beside me out of nowhere. Her presence was like that—silent, until she wanted to be felt.

She looked through the doorway with me, arms folded. “You are a very lucky woman,” she said, eyes warm. “You and your sister both.”

I let out a small laugh, caught off guard by the certainty in her tone.

Then she leaned closer—too close—and whispered in my ear, “A man only talks with both your parents for one reason.”

I turned, brows lifted.

She grinned. “Marriage, baby.”

Then she walked away, laughing like she hadn’t just changed my life with a sentence. The conversation ended a few moments later.

Cam stood slowly. J gave him one of those shoulder claps that said everything without words. My mum turned to me—and her smile was bigger than ever.

She hugged me, arms wrapping around me like prayer.

“He’ll make a fine father,” she said softly, brushing my hair from my face.

I blinked. “Wait, what? Mum, I’m not—”

She laughed. “Relax. I didn’t say now. But one day… one day, you’ll see.”

Cam walked up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, like he’d heard every word.

And maybe he had.

Saying goodbye at the airport was harder than expected.

Both our families were there—clustered at the gate like we were leaving for war, not just going back to Cambridge.

My mum wiped her eyes like dust had gotten in them. (It hadn’t.)

Cam’s dad gave him a firm handshake that ended in a brief, back-patting hug. “Go make us proud,” he said.

His sister Elspeth hugged me tightly and whispered, “Don’t wait too long to say yes.”

To what, I wanted to ask. But I didn’t.

Cam’s mum was last.

She held us both like a blanket.

Then she turned to Cam, cupped his face in her hands, and whispered something I barely caught.

“Do the right thing. Bring my girl home. If not—” she laughed, playful, eyes bright—“I’ll come get her myself.”

She kissed my cheek before I could ask what she meant.

Then we boarded the plane.

Months passed.

And with each one, Maliki called me to tell me—explicitly—how happy and very satisfied Simon was keeping her.

“He made me scream so loud, the neighbour knocked on the wall,” she said once while I was brushing my teeth.

“Maliki, why,” I groaned.

Cam, from the other room: “Was it the third night in a row? I’m losing count.”

“CAM!” I shouted.

He just laughed.

Even Rani got in on it. Every other conversation was her casually dropping hints about Cam. “You know, Cam would make a hot husband. And like, a really good one. You’re graduating. The timing’s perfect.”

I brushed it off. Mostly.

Because we hadn’t talked about marriage. Not once.

And part of me wondered if we even needed to.

Until July came.

Graduation day.

It was warm and golden—sunlight falling over old stone buildings and freshly pressed robes. The courtyard was buzzing, camera flashes popping, proud cries echoing across the lawn.

Cam stood beside me in his gown, smiling without restraint. Rani was behind us, talking a mile a minute while fixing her lipstick. Her boyfriend hovered close, clearly smitten. And then I noticed it.

My mum.

Beaming.

Almost… bursting.

The twins slept against her chest, but she kept opening her mouth like she was about to say something—then closing it just as fast.

Cam’s mum had the same look. Mischievous. Suspiciously glowing.

And his dad?

He couldn’t stop grinning.

At dinner, we played cards after dessert. It was tradition—laughter and teasing, someone always cheating, someone always bluffing badly.

Rani slid me a card and winked.

“Your turn,” she said, all innocence.

I flipped it over.

It wasn’t a playing card.

It was a photo.

Of a ring.

My breath caught.

I looked up—

And there he was.

Cam.

On one knee.

In front of everyone.

The table went silent, the world slowed, and all I could see was him. His eyes soft. Certain. The ring sat in a golden case like it belonged there.

He didn’t speak yet. He just looked up at me, flushed with nerves, with love. My love.

And in that moment, it was as clear as sunlight:

This man wasn’t asking for permission.

He was offering forever.

CHAPTER 18

The room held its breath.

Cam on one knee.

The card still in my hand.

And the ring—gold, delicate, glinting softly in the warm light of the room—held between his fingers like it was the most precious thing he’d ever owned.

I didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

He did.

“It’s been eleven months, twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and sixty seconds since we first became... this.”

A soft murmur from the table. Someone laughed quietly.

He smiled, but not nervously—gently, with certainty. Like he'd been practicing this moment every day since he met me.

“And every single moment, Karla,” he continued, “has been beautiful. Not perfect. Not always easy. But beautiful.”

I felt my throat tighten.

“I’m not promising you perfect,” he said, eyes steady. “But I promise to love you. To cheer for you. To fight for us, every single day. I promise to hold your hand through every storm and dance with you in the rain. I know we both have our flaws. But I’m asking you—give us a chance at forever.”

His voice softened, cracked just slightly.

“Please, Karla Johnson... will you be my wife?”

The whole room disappeared.

It was just him.

Just me.

And that ring—the symbol of everything he was willing to become for us.

My eyes burned. I could feel it: the heat, the pull, the fear.

I looked around.

At everyone.

My mother, smiling so brightly it hurt to look.

Rani, holding her breath.

Maliki, already crying.

Then—J.

His eyes were calm, strong. He looked at me the way a father should—with that silent vow, I’ve got your back. J had always been that. My protector. My anchor.

I didn’t need words from him. Just that look.

And then—I saw Uncle Alvyn. He gave me the same look.

Steady. Present. Proud.

The kind of look that said, you’re not doing this alone I turned back to Cam.

Still kneeling. Still waiting.

Still him.

And I smiled.

“Who else will be your wife if not me?”

Laughter erupted—loud, overflowing, warm.

Cam slid the ring onto my finger with hands that shook just slightly. It fit.

It fit.

He screamed like a kid who had just scored the winning goal. “She said yes! She said yes! SHE SAID YES!”

I laughed through the tears.

Everyone was on their feet—hugging us, hugging each other, clapping, cheering, crying.

Rani and Maliki pulled me aside, arms around my shoulders.

“You had cold feet,” Rani whispered.

“We saw it,” Maliki added, grinning.

“Don’t worry. We got you,” they said in unison, dissolving into laughter.

Then Elspeth wrapped her arms around me.

“I know my brother,” she said, voice low. “When he says something, he means it. He’s one of the good ones. Very rare.”

I knew what she meant.

And I believed her.

Cam’s mum held him like she hadn’t since he was five years old. Then she pulled back and whispered, “You most definitely did the right thing.”

She turned to me next.

Took my face in both hands and kissed my cheek.

“Welcome home, my baby girl.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

Because for the first time, I felt it. Home.

December came.

The air crisp, soft with snow. The kind that doesn’t fall hard—just enough to make everything look like it had been dusted with sugar.

A lot had changed in just a few months.

Cam’s parents—Leila and Graham—had decided to give love another try. Something about watching their son step into forever reminded them of where they started. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Maliki?

Pregnant.

Glowing. Annoyingly romantic. Simon couldn’t stop rubbing her belly.

And Rani—loud, wild, beautiful Rani—had said yes too. Her boyfriend had proposed two weeks after mine, claiming Cam “stole his thunder.” She forgave him instantly.

It was the week before our wedding.

I sat in the living room, soft music in the background, my mother beside me. She was calm in a way I couldn’t understand. Like she’d already seen the future and found peace in it.

She reached over and held my hand.

“You know,” she said, “when I met J, Abuela told me something I never forgot.”

I looked at her. She was gazing into the middle distance, smiling softly.

“She gave me a scripture. 1 John 4:7–17.”

She closed her eyes and began to recite it—word for word.

“‘Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God...’”

Her voice didn’t falter. Not once.

It was the first time she’d ever quoted scripture from memory. When she finished, she looked at me—really looked at me.

“Cam is a wonderful man, Karla. I can see it in him. But if there ever comes a time in your marriage when you feel lost, or angry, or confused… remember that scripture. Let it anchor you. And pray for him. Pray with him.”

I nodded, heart full.

She stood, already turning to leave.

But then she paused.

Looked back at me.

“God gave me two girls,” she said softly. “And I gave them back to Him. And He gave me two beautiful, powerful women in return.”

A pause.

“I thank the Lord God for His faithfulness.”

Then she walked away.

And I just sat there, that truth soaking into my soul like rain into dry earth. It was almost time. And I was ready.

CHAPTER 19

The morning of the wedding felt unreal.

Not because it was dramatic or rushed—no. It was slow. Quiet. Sacred. The kind of calm that settles over you not because everything is perfect, but because everything finally makes sense.

I sat still as the makeup artist added the last touches. Rani kept buzzing around the room with her phone, snapping photos, pretending to interview me like I was a celebrity.

“You nervous?” she asked.

I didn’t answer right away. I just looked at myself in the mirror.

My eyes were wide. Lined with kohl. My lips, soft and full. My cheeks, glowing.

I looked like someone who had arrived.

A bride.

I smiled.

“I’m... not sure what I feel,” I admitted.

Rani grinned. “That’s the answer of someone who’s in deep.”

he car ride to the venue was quiet at first.

J sat beside me in the back, wearing a charcoal grey suit that fit him too well. Rani was up front, fixing her earrings, but then she turned back and smiled. “Y’all prayed yet?”

J looked at me, then nodded.

We joined hands.

And J prayed.

His voice—steady but soft. Careful. Almost like each word was handpicked.

“Lord,” he said, “thank you for today. Thank you for love that finds us, holds us, changes us. Thank you for this daughter, this moment, and this man waiting at the altar. Let peace reign. Let joy remain. Let this covenant be blessed.”

He paused.

Then added quietly, “Strengthen her heart, Lord. Strengthen his hands.”

His voice caught a little, and I realized—J was nervous.

Just like I was.

We all were.

When we arrived, the music was already playing faintly inside.

Rani gave me one final look, wiped under her eyes dramatically like she was the one about to cry, and slipped out of the car.

She walked down the aisle first, opposite James, who stood beside Cam at the altar. They gave each other a grin, the kind people in love give without thinking. Simple. Soft.

Then it was my turn.

J extended his arm.

“You ready?” he asked.

I wasn’t.

But I nodded anyway.

We walked slowly. The doors opened. The whole room rose to their feet. My breath caught.

All eyes.

All smiles.

Cam stood at the front, waiting.

Calm.

Of course he was calm.

His eyes didn’t move. They stayed on me, like I was the only person in the room.

J held me steady as we made our way down the aisle.

When we reached the altar, J kissed my forehead, turned to Cam, and shook his hand—firm, respectful, father-to-man. Then he took his seat between my mum and Cam’s mum, greeting Cam’s parents with a quiet smile.

The priest welcomed us.

Everything else faded.

The vows.

I barely remember what I said, only that my voice trembled once—and Cam’s didn’t at all. He looked at me like he was anchoring me. Like no matter what I said, he was already there. Already mine.

And as the priest asked the final question—Do you take this man…—I had a flash of memory. The recession. The reason I even stayed for my master's degree.How one hard decision unravelled into this beautiful, unexpected story. All of it had led here.

We both said it.

“Yes, I do.”

The crowd erupted.

My mum and Cam’s mum hugged each other so tight, tears rolling down their cheeks.

J clapped quietly, smiling with pride. Cam’s father clapped him on the back, and they shared a moment I’d never forget—two men acknowledging something that didn’t need to be said.

Cam leaned into me and whispered, “I love you. And I promise to love you.”

I smiled, whispered back, “I know.”

And the priest smiled down at us.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

We kissed. Not shyly. Not nervously. But deeply—like the whole world had just tilted in our favour.

The reception was electric.

Laughter, colour, music that bounced off the walls. Food that smelled like both our cultures had fused into something new and delicious.

Then came the speeches.

James went first, raising a toast to his “brother from another mother” and describing how Cam used to practice proposing to imaginary women in their dorm room—“until Karla made him forget what nerves were.”

Then Rani took the mic.

And chaos, as always, followed.

She told everyone how we met. How she accidentally spilled coffee on me, then forced me to be her friend. How she met Cam “randomly, one day, looking like he hadn’t slept but smiling like a man who had found peace.”

She grinned at me. “Then he started calling me at odd hours. ‘Teach me how to cook jollof. What seasoning does Karla like? How do I braid hair for our kids?’ That’s when I knew this man was crazy.”

The room laughed.

She turned serious, just a little.

“Good crazy, though. Rare kind of crazy. Cam, I see how you love her. Karla… I know you already know this. But just in case—this man is yours. Forever kind of yours.”

Cam looked at me, eyes shining, hand warm in mine.

I squeezed back.

The night spun into dancing, jokes, wild laughter. We danced with bare feet, hugged strangers like family, kissed like no one was watching.

Because that was our beginning.

Not a perfect story.

But a beautiful one.

CHAPTER 20

After the wedding reception, we headed to our hotel room, which was equally elegant and classy. Cam had chosen the hotel, the room, and even planned the honeymoon. I realized he was more of a romantic than I was. As I closed the door behind us, Cam pulled me close, gazing around the room in amazement, and said, “Can we pray?” I was taken aback. Although Cam was a Christian, he had never been particularly spiritual. I knew this because some of my Christian friends had expressed concern that he was a negative influence on me. They even suggested I should marry one of their Christian brothers, which I never considered.

As Cam asked to pray again, I thought about those comments.

I replied, "Why not?"

I opened one eye during his prayer, half-expecting a joke, but he was serious. He placed our marriage into God's hands and quoted the entire Hebrews 12:1-3. I was astonished and realized I had misjudged Cam. He was genuinely a man of God—not just because he quoted scripture, but because he prioritized God in our marriage, something many men often hide.

After his prayer, we both said “Amen.” Cam looked at me with joy, unburdened by nervousness. He whispered in my ear, “Everything will be fine, Karla. God is in control.” I smiled in agreement. A few moments later, we were both naked. There was a palpable difference; something real was happening, and we both sensed it. Cam drew me closer, and I giggled a little. He looked at me, surprised by my reaction, but then softly kissed me, pulling my waist toward him. It felt familiar yet exhilarating, as if it were our first night together.

Eventually, Cam laid me on the bed and instructed me to tell him to stop if I felt uncomfortable. I nodded slightly, and we began with oral sex, exploring each other simultaneously, laughter mingling with our pleasure.

Then he asked, “Are you ready?” I nodded again.

He slowly entered me, and I felt a deep connection. It fit perfectly.

As he moved gently but deeply inside me, we shared intimate words. He expressed how long he had waited for this moment, how much he loved me, and his dreams of us becoming parents. I could tell he was trying to please me, and he was succeeding. I found myself moaning his name—“Cam! Cam! Cam!”

Each moan seemed to encourage him to go deeper. Neither of us wanted to stop as we climbed higher together.

Cam began to move faster, the intensity building. I could feel it throughout my body, and we were on the brink of climax. He kept whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you, Karla,” until we both reached our peak together. He gently withdrew, kissing my forehead afterward.

“How do you feel? Did you enjoy it?” he asked.

I shyly smiled and replied, “Yes.”

He checked if he was gentle enough, and I nodded in affirmation.

A few hours later, we awoke feeling incredibly aroused. I playfully suggested riding him, and he seemed surprised but quickly relaxed. We had never attempted this before, but I felt confident with Cam by my side. I wanted to please him, and he was aware of it.

With a laugh, I awkwardly settled on top of him. He smiled and said, “If it helps, I’ll enjoy it, Karla.”

I softly replied, “Okay.”

We guided each other, and as I began to ride him, I felt a rush of excitement. His eyes sparkled with love, and he exclaimed, “Karla, I’m going to love this. Just be yourself.”

I smiled and continued, enjoying the way he reacted to my movements. As I rode him, Cam was vocal in his pleasure, and I could feel his desire. When he drew me close, I didn’t have the words to express my feelings, so I quickened my pace. Memories of our first night flooded back as Cam kissed my breasts, igniting my desire even more.

Just before we climaxed, Cam wrapped an arm around my waist, holding me tightly. We were lost in each other’s names, moaning as we reached our final release together. I could see the happiness on his face; I had satisfied him.

For so long, I had felt trapped by expectations and the pressure to be perfect, but Cam saw me for who I truly was.

He looked at me and said, “You were excellent! Where did you learn that?” We both laughed.

Then I asked, “What’s next?”

Understanding my question, he chuckled and replied, “Love comes next.”