The next day, I requested to be transferred. I couldn’t bear to see him again.
Two weeks later, a woman came to my door. She wore white, elegant and graceful. Her face reminded me of Nonso, but softer.
“Are you Lucia?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Nonso’s older sister.”
I froze.
“He cried when he read your letter. He didn’t know. Our parents told him you had an ab0rtion.”
“No,” I said quietly. “Chidera lived for nine years. He d.ied waiting for his father.”
She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Nonso went to the cemetery. He found your son’s grave. He wants to see you—not to apologize, but to atone.”
