And even though Daddy never really said it, I think deep down, a part of him knew. Knew she was the glue.
Knew she was the reason we hadn't completely fallen apart.
But pride is a stubborn thing.
And pain… pain makes you selfish. Daddy was selfish in his suffering. Mummy was selfless in hers.
It was a Sunday.
The kind of Sunday that smelled like fried plantains and Well cooked jollof rice.
Mummy had music playing from her little Bluetooth speaker — one of those old-school Yoruba fuji tracks that had talking drum in the background and voices that sounded like they came from the 90s.
Hawau and I were on the veranda, scrubbing our school sandals with an old toothbrush and a basin of soapy water. She was humming, off-key as usual, and drumming her feet against the wet cement. She always had too much energy.
"You didn't scrub that corner well," she said, snatching my sandal.
"Give it back, joor!" I retorted, holding on to it tight.
"You want to go to school with brown shoe? Ha! Shame o. Let me help you." She teased.
"You're not helping. You're showing off."
She laughed.
Loud.
"Sharp girls don't carry dirty shoes, Raylah. Shine your eye now!"
That was Hawau — too loud, too fast, too bright. She made everything chaotic and yet…warm. I used to pray for a sister, and even though she came with noise, secrets, and complicated stories, Allah gave me someone who chose me every time.
Inside, Mummy was stirring the pot of rice with one hand and flipping dodo with the other.
"Raylah! Come and help me wash these tomatoes!" My voice came from inside the kitchen.
"Yes, ma!" I answered, standing up from where I was to go help in the kitchen.
"Hawau! Go and call your daddy." Mum ordered, it felt like a bomb had just been dropped in the kitchen.
The kitchen went quiet.
Even the sizzling of the oil seemed to hush.
Hawau wiped her hands on her wrapper and stood up quickly.
"I'll go," she said, avoiding my eyes.
She always did it. Every time. I never asked why, and she never said. But I knew. I was afraid of the silence in his room. Afraid of the way he sometimes looked at the wall like It had betrayed him.
She tapped the door. Waited.
"Daddy… food is ready." She called out, after knocking, waiting for a response.
Silence.
Then, his voice, soft but cold, "Just leave it there."
She came back out like nothing happened and grinned, "He said we should leave it," but her eyes didn't match her mouth.
Mummy placed his food neatly on the tray, like she was handling something fragile.
Then she joined us on the floor, legs crossed, scarf sliding back, the tired lines on her face softened by the smell of hot rice and fried plantain. She always make us eat on the floor when there are chairs and couches we could sit on, I don't why—even know—i don't know.
That moment — us three — was calm. Beautiful, even. Like a framed photo you hold on to, even when everything else gets blurry.
But there was always something off-center. Like a chair missing its fourth leg. We balanced anyway.
Before I forget, there's something important about Daddy that I never wanted to say out loud.
He used to go to the psychiatric hospital at Yaba.
For the longest time, I was ashamed to tell anyone. I thought people would judge us, that they'd see us as broken or cursed.
But now? Now I'm grateful.
Because understanding that helped me see why Mummy was always so tired, why sometimes Daddy was like a stranger in our own home — present but distant, quiet but restless.
He wasn't just lazy or cruel. He was fighting battles inside his mind that I could never fully understand.
It wasn't easy for any of us.
But it also made me stronger.
It made me realize that love isn't always loud or perfect.
Sometimes, love is showing up anyway, even when things get messy.
Even when you don't know what tomorrow will bring.
I remember the first time I heard about the hospital at Yaba.
I was maybe Nine or Ten.
Mummy whispered on the phone one night, her voice low and tired. "I had to take your father to the hospital again… he wasn't himself." I didn't fully understand what that meant.
I just knew it wasn't good.
The next day at school, a kid asked me why my dad wasn't at the mosque like other dads.
I hesitated, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
I wanted to lie, to say he was working or sick.
But the words stuck in my throat.
I was scared someone would find out.
That they'd think my family was weird or broken.
At home, Daddy was sometimes quiet for days.
Sometimes angry, sometimes lost in his own world.
I didn't know which one was coming.
But Mummy? She never gave up.
Even when she cried alone at night, even when she looked like she might break.
She kept holding us together.
I think that's when I started understanding.
Mental illness isn't about blame or shame.
It's a battle, one that some people fight every day.
And for my family, it's part of our story.
Maybe the hardest part.
But also part of what made us who we are.
I remember the first time I took money from mummy's purse. It wasn't because I wanted to be bad or careless—no, it was desperation wrapped in confusion.
Mummy was always working — three jobs, they said — but somehow, money felt like it was slipping through her fingers like water.
Daddy's sickness didn't just take his health; it took his ability to provide, to be the man he once was. Mummy tried to hold everything together, but I saw the cracks. I saw her tired eyes, the way she'd bite her lip when counting bills. And me? I was just a kid, but I wanted something I couldn't name. Maybe it was control, or a secret rebellion. Maybe it was the hunger to feel like I mattered.
So one day, when mummy left her purse unattended, I slipped a few notes into my pocket. My heart pounded like a drum. Not from guilt at first, but from the thrill of the forbidden.
Later, when mummy noticed, she didn't shout. She didn't cry. She just looked at me, tired but steady, and said, "Raylah, we don't steal from the people who love us." Her voice wasn't angry. It was weary, like she'd already fought too many battles. I wanted to explain, to say I didn't know why I did it. But I just nodded.
Because deep down, I was scared. Scared that our family was falling apart. And scared that no matter how hard mummy worked, it might never be enough. After that day, things didn't get easier.
Mummy didn't punish me with words or anger, but her quiet disappointment was heavier than any scolding.
She started keeping her purse locked away, and I knew I had broken a fragile trust.
At night, I'd lie awake, replaying her gentle words, feeling a knot of shame twist inside me.
But more than shame, there was confusion.
Why was I so restless? Why did I need things I couldn't explain?
Sometimes I thought it was loneliness.
Sometimes, I thought it was anger—anger at daddy for being sick and absent, anger at the world for making mummy fight so hard alone.
Sometimes, I just felt empty.
Mummy's strength was a light in the darkness, but even light can flicker when the wind is strong.
I watched her carry the weight of four people—the broken man she married, the daughter she loved, the baby she'd raised alone—and I knew she was tired in a way words couldn't reach.
And so, stealing wasn't just about the money.
It was a silent scream for help, a small rebellion in a house where love and pain tangled like vines.