Chapter 11: Mary's Father Returns
Mary hadn't seen her father in what felt like a lifetime.
Since the day her mother was buried, he had remained distant—still away serving in the military, still unreachable. But in her heart, she clung to the idea of him. Her father was a soldier. A man of honor and strength. He had loved their mother deeply. He had been firm but fair.
Surely, if he knew how Mary was suffering, he would come for her.
And then, one afternoon, word spread: her father had returned to Taraba.
Mary's heart skipped. She didn't know when he would come, but she began to wait in quiet anticipation. Every sound of footsteps near the house made her chest flutter. Every passing motorcycle or knock on the gate filled her with breathless hope.
Finally, the day came.
He arrived without warning. A strong, dark figure in uniform, worn by distance and time. The sight of him nearly brought tears to Mary's eyes. She rushed to greet him, hoping for an embrace, for warmth—for rescue.
But something was different.
He looked tired. Older. His eyes didn't soften when they landed on her. His words were clipped. Formal. He asked her a few questions—Was she well? Was she eating? Was school going fine?
Mary wanted to tell him everything. About the beatings. The chores. The hunger. The loneliness.
But her aunt stood nearby, arms folded, lips tight.
Mary hesitated—and stayed silent.
Her father stayed only a few hours. He spoke mostly with the adults, never asking to see where Mary slept or how she was treated. Before he left, he handed her aunt a folded note and some cash, nodding as if satisfied that his daughter was "in good hands."
Mary watched him go, her heart crumbling.
She wanted to run after him. To scream. To beg.
But she didn't.
She stood still, her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes dry. The man she had thought would rescue her had become just another shadow passing through her life.
And for the first time, she realized: no one was coming to save her.
She would have to save herself.