Chapter 4 The truth

I sat by the window, staring out at the dim, quiet street. The gentle hum of distant traffic was a soothing background noise, but inside me, there was only silence-an empty, aching void I'd become all too familiar with.

It hadn't always been this way. Once, I had been happy-blissfully so. Married to Jackson for eight years, we had spent the first few in love's warm embrace, dreaming of a family. My first pregnancy had been a dream come true, a promise of joy. But that dream had shattered just as swiftly, ending in a miscarriage. I cried for days, but Jackson had been my rock, assuring me that we would try again, that we would be parents.

But the second pregnancy ended the same way-another miscarriage, another flood of grief. This time, the sadness lingered longer. Jackson's reassurances felt more like echoes, words without warmth. Yet, we clung to hope. Until the third time.

The day of the third miscarriage is seared into my memory-the blinding pain, the rush to the hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptics. And then, the doctor's words, clipped and final: complications had forced them to remove my womb. No more children. No more hope.

My world crumbled. The days that followed blurred together in a haze of grief. I stopped eating, stopped talking. What was there to say? My body had failed me. Jackson tried to be strong, forcing smiles, making me tea, holding me when I woke up sobbing. But I saw the weariness in his eyes, the quiet despair he tried to hide.

Eventually, the strain became too much. Jackson turned to alcohol. At first, it was a drink after work-an attempt to numb the pain he couldn't escape. Then two. Then too many. I'd find him stumbling through the door, his breath reeking of cheap gin, his eyes glassy.

Then came the gambling. What began as a night out with friends turned into a destructive habit. He lost money we didn't have, then started stealing from me. I would save a few naira from my tailoring work-money I earned stitching clothes for neighbors. But Jackson would take it, claiming it was a loan he'd repay.

But he never did.

We fought often. Heated arguments that shattered the fragile silence of our home. I would scream at him for wasting what little we had, for abandoning me in my pain. He would promise to change, swear he'd do better. But the cycle continued.

I realized I had no choice but to pick myself up. I had always been good with my hands, so I took up tailoring. At first, it was just something to keep my mind busy, but soon, it became a lifeline. Neighbors came to me for repairs, then for new dresses. My skills grew, and so did my small income.

But Jackson didn't change. The drinking worsened, and his gambling debts began to creep up. Yet I endured, patching clothes by day and arguing by night.

One rainy evening, as I walked home after delivering a gown to a client, I heard frantic voices from an alley. Instinct made me hide behind a large dumpster, and I saw them-a group of men, surrounding a heavily pregnant woman. They were demanding her bag, one of them reaching to grab her.

My heart pounded. My first instinct was to run, but something stopped me. Trembling, I pulled out my phone and dialed the police, whispering the location. The next few minutes felt like hours, but the sudden wail of sirens sent the attackers scattering.

I rushed to the woman's side. She was crying, clutching her belly. "Are you alright?" I asked, helping her to her feet.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," the woman sobbed. Her name was Clara, and she was relocating, hoping to start a new life, but her plans had fallen apart. Now, she had nowhere to go.

My gaze softened. "You can stay with me. It's not much, but it's safe."

Clara hesitated, but the cold rain and her exhaustion made the decision for her. Together, we walked to my small, weathered home. As we settled in, I found a strange sense of purpose. For the first time in a long while, I wasn't thinking of my own pain.

Clara was grateful, and despite her weariness, her presence brought a warmth to the house that had been missing for years. I tended to her, cooked for her, and in the quiet of the nights, we would talk-two broken souls, each finding comfort in the other.

For me, Clara was more than a guest. She was a reminder that even in a world of loss, there was still room for kindness, for connection.

And perhaps, for a new beginning.

Weeks turned to months, and Clara's belly grew rounder. Then one night, as the rain battered the roof, Clara's labor pains began. Panic gripped me, but I forced myself to stay calm. We barely made it to the clinic in time. Hours of pain, screams, and tears ended with the cries of two tiny girls-twins. Clara's joy was infectious, and in that moment, I was happy.

We returned home, and our little house was filled with the soft cries and laughter of newborns. I helped Clara with everything, and we became like sisters. For two months, we were a family.

But then it all changed.

I returned one evening after delivering clothes to a client, my feet aching but my heart light. I pushed the door open, expecting Clara's warm smile. Instead, I was greeted by silence.

Clara was gone.

A note lay on the table, hastily written:

"Rebecca, I'm sorry. I had no choice. I can't explain, but I have to leave. Please take care of her."

I stared at the note, and then the soft whimpering drew my gaze to the small crib by the corner. One of the babies was still there, her tiny hands reaching out, her innocent eyes meeting mine.

My heart shattered and swelled at the same time.

Clara had left, but she had also left me a gift.

A daughter.