There's a letter in my inbox.
Not a message.
Not a DM.
A real, scanned letter—emailed from a law firm in Port Harcourt.
From *him*.
The man who gave me his last name, and nothing else.
*My father.*
---
The last time I saw him, I was ten.
I was wearing a yellow dress.
He was holding a suitcase.
And when my mother begged him to stay, he said something I'll never forget:
*"She'll be fine without me."*
He wasn't wrong.
I *was* fine.
But I never forgave him for being right.
---
Now the letter sits on my laptop screen like a wound.
He wants to talk.
Wants to reconnect.
Wants to meet "the woman his daughter has become."
It's not signed *Love, Dad.*
Just *"—Tayo."*
Tari finds me curled up in the library, clutching the laptop like it might burn through me.
"You okay?" he asks.
"I don't know."
"Want to talk about it?"
I shrug.
He doesn't push.
Just sits next to me, close enough for his warmth to say: *I'm here when you're ready.*
---
Later that night, Nene barges into our room holding a tub of ice cream.
"You've got *that* face," she says, handing me a spoon.
"What face?"
"The 'I'm trying not to punch my past in the throat' face."
I sigh, showing her the email.
She reads it twice, then says softly: "You don't owe him forgiveness. But you do owe yourself freedom."
---
The next weekend, I travel home.
Three hours by bus. One notebook. Zero expectations.
My mother meets me at the station, her face older, softer.
We don't talk much on the drive. Just sit in the quiet way women do when they're holding history together.
---
When we get home, the house feels smaller.
I sleep in my old room—same peeling posters, same cracked fan.
But my childhood doesn't fit anymore.
Not in this bed.
Not in these walls.
I leave to meet my father the next morning.
---
I meet him at a quiet café just outside town.
He's early.
Of course he is. Men like Tayo always arrive on time for things they abandoned long ago.
He stands when I walk in. Same smile. Same eyes.
Too familiar for a stranger.
"Wow," he says. "Ayanna. You look so grown."
I sit. "I *am* grown."
A beat of awkward silence.
Then he starts talking—about work, about travel, about all the things he did while I was learning how to eat grief for breakfast.
---
"I watched your open mic video," he says. "You've got fire in you."
I laugh—sharp, tired.
"That fire raised itself."
He looks down. "I deserve that."
"Yes, you do."
---
He tells me he's sick.
Something degenerative. Something that made him want to reach out "before it's too late."
"You want forgiveness," I say.
He looks up, eyes wet. "I want to know you. Anything else is grace."
I stare at him—this man with my chin and my laugh and none of my scars.
"I'm not sure I have any grace left," I whisper.
---
He nods.
Doesn't beg.
Just sits there—tired, fragile.
And for the first time, I don't see the man who left.
I see a man who ran.
---
We talk for two hours. Not about love. Not about healing.
Just… facts.
Memories.
Versions of the past seen from opposite windows.
---
As I leave, he says, "I don't expect you to love me."
I turn. "Good. Because I don't. But maybe one day, I'll stop hating you."
And that, somehow, feels like progress.
---
Back at school, I walk into Tari's arms without a word.
He holds me.
I cry.
He doesn't ask what happened.
He just lets me be small again—just for a moment.
---
*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal:*
*Closure isn't always forgiveness.
Sometimes it's a conversation.
Sometimes it's a goodbye.
Sometimes it's surviving the past long enough to name it.*
---