The sun filtered gently through the glass windows of the Raymond family's home. It was a quiet Saturday morning — the kind where most families in Kampala were busy preparing breakfast, checking homework, or taking their children for a weekend outing.
But not in this house.
Inside, the only sound was the soft scratching of a pencil on paper.
Nine-year-old Dexta Sally sat alone at the dining table, hunched over a blank sheet of paper. He was drawing — his safe space. His colored pencils were worn down to stubs, his hand moving slowly as he tried to finish the picture of a lion. His eyes, soft and quiet, were focused, but his heart wasn't in it.
He hadn't spoken to his mother in three days.
Not because he was in trouble.
Not because he'd done anything wrong.
She simply hadn't looked at him.
---
In the living room, Sally Raymond stood behind a curtain, watching his son.
He had just come from a business meeting and hadn't expected the house to be this quiet. No cartoons on the TV. No running feet. No laughter. Just Dexta and his sketchbook, sitting in silence.
Sally's eyes narrowed. Something inside him stirred — not anger, but sadness. A quiet ache.
He walked over and sat across from his son.
"You're awake early," he said gently.
Dexta nodded without looking up.
"What are you drawing today?"
"A lion," the boy whispered. "But I can't find the red."
Sally looked at the pile of stubby pencils, then stood up. "Let's go buy a new set today. Would you like that?"
Dexta looked up, eyes lighting slightly. "Really?"
"Yes," Sally smiled. "You deserve better than broken crayons."
---
Just then, Maria, their long-serving maid, walked in with a tray — tea, bread, and a plate of boiled eggs.
"Good morning, sir," she said respectfully, placing the tray down.
"Thank you, Maria," Sally replied. Then he paused. "Where's Beatrice?"
Maria's smile faded.
"In the bedroom, sir. She said not to disturb her. She hasn't come out yet."
Sally checked the time. It was nearly 9:30 a.m.
"She didn't say anything about breakfast with Dexta?"
Maria hesitated. "She hasn't spoken to him since Thursday."
Sally felt a heaviness in his chest.
"She didn't even say goodnight yesterday?"
"No, sir. She came back late and went straight to bed."
Sally turned back to look at his son — still quietly drawing, pretending not to hear.
"Maria," Sally said softly, "how long has it been like this?"
Maria swallowed. "Sir… honestly, since he was a baby."
Sally looked up sharply.
"She was never interested," Maria continued, her voice calm but honest. "She didn't want to breastfeed. Didn't want to hold him. It was always me or you doing the feeding, the changing, the comforting."
He leaned back in the chair, stunned.
"But she seemed happy when I told her you were pregnant. She even chose his name."
Maria nodded. "Yes. But that was before he was born. After, she changed. She never bonded with him. I don't know why. But that boy has grown up more loved by staff than his own mother."
---
Later that afternoon, Sally sat alone in the garden.
Memories began to return — small, scattered moments he'd ignored for too long.
He remembered Dexta's first birthday. Beatrice had been "too tired" to bake a cake or plan anything. It was Maria who had stayed up past midnight blowing up balloons and hanging decorations.
He remembered the first day of school. Beatrice had complained about traffic and stayed home, claiming she had a migraine. It was Sally who had held Dexta's small hand at the school gate.
He remembered hospital visits, sports days, lost teeth, drawings stuck on the fridge… and Beatrice had been absent in all of them.
How could I have missed this?
How did I accept her silence as normal?
He felt ashamed.
Not for himself.
But for his son — the boy who never complained, who waited silently for a kind word that never came.
---
That evening, Sally made a decision.
He walked into the bedroom where Beatrice lay scrolling through her phone, her face blank and distant.
She looked up lazily. "You're back."
He nodded but didn't sit.
"Do you know what your son did today?"
She frowned. "What?"
"He drew a lion," he said, watching her. "A beautiful one. Even with broken pencils."
"Okay?" she replied, uninterested.
"He hasn't spoken to you in days."
Beatrice rolled her eyes. "That's not true."
"Yes, it is. And you haven't said goodnight to him. Or asked about school. Or hugged him. Not in months."
She threw the phone aside and sat up. "Sally, what's this about? I'm tired. I work too. You're acting like I'm a monster."
"I'm acting like a father," he replied quietly. "One who just realized his son is growing up without a mother's love."
Beatrice stood. "That's not fair—"
"No," Sally interrupted. "What's not fair is that Maria remembers every stage of his life, and you don't."
Beatrice opened her mouth, then closed it.
Sally stepped back, his voice calm but firm. "I ignored this for too long. Maybe I was too distracted with work… or with other things."
His thoughts drifted — Zaria. The child who had been starved of love, and still managed to smile. How strange that she, who had nothing, showed more heart than Beatrice who had everything.
"Beatrice," he said finally, "why did you really have children?"
She didn't answer.
He didn't wait.
He turned and left her standing in silence, surrounded by the cold walls she had built herself.
---
That night, Sally knocked softly on Dexta's door.
"Papa?" the boy asked.
"Yes, it's me," he smiled. "Can I come in?"
The boy nodded, and Sally entered holding a small new box of colored pencils.
"For you."
Dexta's face lit up. "Thank you, Papa!"
Sally sat beside him and hugged him close.
"I want you to know something," he said quietly. "You're special. You're not forgotten. And you'll never be unloved."
Dexta didn't say anything, but his eyes filled with tears.
And in that moment, father and son sat together — two hearts holding on to what Beatrice had so easily let go.