The emergency room echoed with the soft shuffle of hurried footsteps and the low hum of machines. Overhead, white fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow over everything they touched. Patience lay still on the hospital bed, her skin pale against the white sheets, her breathing slow and steady.
Mrs. Adeyemi gripped her daughter's hand with both of hers, silently praying under her breath. The worry etched into her face was more than maternal concern—it was the quiet terror of a mother watching her world slowly come apart.
Mr. Adeyemi stood by the large window, arms crossed, eyes darting between the monitors and the motionless body of the daughter he raised—but not the one he had fathered. He tapped his foot anxiously, a gesture that betrayed the storm brewing inside him.
"I should've driven," Mrs. Adeyemi mumbled. "I should've—"
"You know you can't see well at night," he interrupted without looking at her. "We couldn't waste any more time. Thank God we made it here quickly."
"I just—" she paused, wiping her eyes. "I can't shake off this guilt."
Mr. Adeyemi sighed and turned around, his eyes narrowing. "What we need to focus on is her blood. She's AB positive. She can save Peace."
"Peace will be fine," his wife snapped, her voice barely above a whisper. "But Patience isn't a tool, Ade. She's not just here to rescue our biological daughter."
"Stop twisting my words," he shot back. "I'm not saying she's not our daughter—I'm saying she's the only one who can help right now. The sooner she donates, the better for Peace."
Unbeknownst to them both, Patience's consciousness had begun to stir. At first, the beeping of the heart monitor grew louder in her ears. Then came the awareness of warmth—her mother's hands clasped around hers—and the aching heaviness in her head. She knew she was no longer in the house.
But when her father's voice rose again, sharp and urgent, she kept her eyes shut. A part of her was afraid to wake. Another part needed to hear the rest.
"She's adopted, yes," Mr. Adeyemi said, as though confirming something out loud for the first time.
Mrs. Adeyemi's shoulders stiffened. "That doesn't make her less ours."
"She collapsed, Ade," she said quietly. "She collapsed after hearing us argue. She's not a robot. She has feelings—flesh, blood, and a heart. You saw her face before we left. What if she did hear something? What if it was too much for her?"
There was silence.
Mr. Adeyemi looked down at the floor. His foot stopped tapping.
A knock on the door brought both parents out of their tense standoff. A young doctor in green scrubs walked in, holding a clipboard.
"Good evening," he greeted gently. "We've done some quick checks. Thankfully, nothing alarming showed up—no internal trauma, no head injury. It appears her fainting spell was due to stress and exhaustion. It happens, especially in young adults under emotional strain. She just needs some rest."
"Thank God," Mrs. Adeyemi breathed.
The doctor smiled. "Once she wakes up, let her rest a few more hours before you take her home. But please, be gentle. No arguments, no emotional outbursts. Her body is okay. But her mind… might be overloaded."
As the doctor left, Mr. Adeyemi exhaled in relief.
"Well, at least she can still donate," he said almost too quickly.
"No!" his wife's voice was sharp. "You heard what the doctor said. She needs to rest. No blood donation tonight. Don't you dare push her!"
"She's fine now, and the facts remain—she can save Peace."
"She can wait," she said, rising to her feet. "If you force this, you'll lose more than a daughter tonight. You'll lose her trust."
"She's not a child. She's twenty. She can make her own decisions."
"She shouldn't have to make them with the weight of your expectations choking her," Mrs. Adeyemi shot back.
On the hospital bed, Patience remained still. Tears slowly slid from the corners of her eyes, soaking into the pillow beneath her. She had heard everything—the truth about her adoption, the pressure to donate, the father she had loved unknowingly calling her a solution, not a soul.
Her world, already wobbling on uncertain ground, cracked quietly beneath her closed eyelids.
She didn't know who she was anymore. All she knew was that the silence she maintained was her only shield—for now.