Eke had been staying with me all week. Adanna was supposed to pick him up Saturday morning for her scheduled weekend.
That arrangement had stayed the same for months.
So when the doorbell rang at 6:45 PM and I glanced through the side window and saw her standing on the porch wearing a coat with a bag over her shoulder, my first thought was that something bad had happened.
I opened the door.
“Hey,” she said. “I know it’s technically not my night. I just… had a work meeting canceled in Ikeja, and since I was already nearby, I thought maybe I could stop in and see Eke before heading home.”
She looked exhausted — not ordinary tiredness from a busy week, but the kind that settles deep behind someone’s eyes.
“Of course,” I replied. “Come in.”
Eke heard her voice from the living room and came running the way only seven-year-olds can — full speed, no hesitation — crashing into her like a tiny human missile. She caught him easily and laughed.
That laugh again.
Filling the entire house.
I returned to the kitchen and finished making dinner. After a moment, I called out,
“There’s enough jollof if you want to stay…
That evening felt strangely familiar.
Not because anything extraordinary happened.
Because everything felt ordinary.
And after two years of careful distance, ordinary felt dangerous.
Adanna accepted the dinner invitation with a tired smile.
“Only if you’re sure.”
“There’s enough food to feed an entire football team,” I said.
Eke immediately cheered.
“Mommy stays!”
And just like that, she stayed.
The three of us sat around the dining table eating jollof rice and grilled chicken.
Eke spent most of dinner explaining why a Tyrannosaurus rex would easily defeat a lion, a crocodile, and apparently the entire Super Eagles defense.
Adanna laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
For a moment, watching them together, I forgot we were divorced.
Forgot the court papers.
Forgot the empty side of my bed.
Forgot the months spent convincing myself I was completely fine.
