The house had grown quieter since Amoke's absence, yet it pulsed with a new kind of life. In the center of it all was the newborn, her soft cries filling the air like fragile music. His mother had taken full charge, her hands steady and experienced, guiding the household with the grace of one who had raised children before. She moved about with calm authority. Feeding, bathing, singing lullabies in hushed tones that soothed both the baby and the troubled hearts within the home. Her presence brought a sense of stability that he desperately needed. She managed the meals, kept the home warm, and often reassured him with gentle words, reminding him that both mother and child were covered in prayers.
Yet, not all was as peaceful as it appeared. The sister had also offered to "help," hovering around the baby more than necessary. She would cradle her for long moments, her eyes studying her tiny features with a strange mixture of curiosity and something harder to place. She smiled when others were watching, but in private, her expression often darkened as if the child's existence was a reminder of something she could not have. Sometimes, when the baby whimpered, she would mutter under her breath before quickly catching herself, only to paste on a bright face when her mother or brother walked into the room. To his mother, these whispers were nothing more than tiredness or inexperience with infants but the shadows in the younger woman's eyes hinted at more, something deeper, something that lingered like a storm behind the cradle's soft lullabies.
In the late afternoon, sunlight streamed gently through the curtains, casting golden lines across the living room. His mother sat in a rocking chair, the baby nestled against her chest. She hummed a soft tune, one she used to sing to her children years ago, her voice low and comforting. The little girl sighed and relaxed, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of her wrapper.
"See how peaceful she is," she whispered, brushing her lips against his forehead. "Your mother may be resting now, but you are surrounded with love. She will wake up to hold you herself one day." At the doorway, the sister leaned against the wall, her eyes fixed on the scene. She forced a smile as she walked closer. "Mama, let me hold her for a while. You have been with her all morning."
His mother looked up, her face warm with trust. "Ah, yes, come. Children must know many arms that care for them." She carefully transferred the baby into her daughter's hands. For a moment, the sister rocked him gently, her face softening as the baby stirred. But then, as she looked closer at her delicate features; her father's nose and her mother's lips, her smile faltered. She already carries them both in her face. Even without her awake, she lives in her, she thought bitterly. The baby fussed, her tiny mouth puckering as if to cry. She patted her back but her movements lacked the rhythm of genuine tenderness. "Hush, hush," she muttered, her tone flat. "You're too demanding, little one." Her mother's sharp ears caught the tone. She rose slowly from her chair, her eyes narrowing slightly though her voice remained calm. "Babies are demanding, my dear but they are also blessings. You must hold her with patience. Here, let me show you again." She reached out, and reluctantly the sister returned the child. The moment she was back in his grandmother's arms, her cries softened, as if recognizing the difference. The older woman smiled knowingly, adjusting her with practiced ease. "See? It is not just the hands, it is the heart. A child can sense when she is truly loved." Her daughter said nothing, but inside her, the words stung like salt on an open wound.
The sound of a car horn outside drew their attention. A moment later, the front door opened, and Amoke's husband stepped in, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the day. He had spent hours at the hospital beside Amoke, speaking to her, praying over her, holding her hand as though he could will her back to consciousness. Now, as he walked into the living room, his tired eyes softened at the sight before him. His mother sat in the rocking chair, gently swaying with the baby in her arms. The child's tiny fingers clutched her gown, his lips parted in contented sleep. His heart melted. "Mama," he said quietly, "you're truly God's gift to us. Thank you."
His mother looked up, her face breaking into a smile. "This child is a joy, my son. She brings light into the house even as we wait for Amoke. She will be proud when she sees how strong she is." he stepped closer, brushing a tender hand over his daughter's tiny head. His eyes misted. "she has her lips," he murmured. His sister, standing a few feet away, forced a bright smile. "Yes, she looks so much like her but she also has your nose, brother. She's truly your daughter." Her tone was light, but her eyes lingered on the baby with a flicker of something unspoken. Her brother too absorbed in the moment, didn't notice. Instead, he reached for the baby, cradling her carefully against his chest. The child stirred, letting out a soft whimper before settling again at the familiar warmth of her father. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, whispering, "Your mother will come back to us, I promise."
His mother watched him with quiet pride, though a trace of worry lingered in her eyes. "You must rest too, my son. The baby needs your strength, and so will Amoke when she opens her eyes." He nodded, his gaze drifting between the infant and his mother. "I'll rest, Mama, but until she wakes, I can't stop hoping, can't stop trying."
That evening, the family gathered around the dining table. The aroma of freshly cooked stew filled the room, a small reminder of normalcy amidst the storm that loomed over them. His mother had insisted on preparing the meal herself, refusing to let the household slip into disorder. She dished food generously, her hands moving with practiced care. "Eat well, my son," she urged, placing a plate before him. "You need strength for the days ahead." He managed a faint smile. "Thank you, Mama." He picked at the food for a moment before setting down his spoon, his expression turning serious. "The doctor said something today." His mother looked up sharply, her heart thudding. "What is it? Tell me, my son."
"The doctor confirmed she responded," he said, his voice low but filled with a quiet hope. "When I spoke to her, a tear fell from her eyes. And I felt her hand twitch. He said it's a sign that she's hearing me, even if she can't show it fully yet."
His mother clasped her chest, relief flooding her face. "Ah! Thank You, Lord. This is a sign of mercy. She will come back to us, my son. She will not leave her child." Across the table, his sister shifted uncomfortably. She forced a thin smile and muttered, "Doctors always say such things sometimes it doesn't mean much." he cut her off, shaking his head firmly. "No. This is real. I know Amoke. She's fighting. She's stronger than we think." His mother reached across the table, laying her hand on her son's. "Then keep speaking to her, my son. Speak life to her. If her spirit is listening, your voice will be the rope that pulls her back." He nodded, determination sharpening his features. "I'll never stop talking to her, not until she opens her eyes." Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the baby's soft cry from the next room. Her grandmother rose at once to tend to her, her steps brisk but gentle. Meanwhile, his sister sat in the shadows of the flickering lamp, her food untouched, her mind churning with thoughts she dared not voice.
The sister's bitterness toward Amoke and the child was rooted in wounds that went back much further than anyone could imagine. She and her brother had grown up in a stormy home. Their father's harshness and cruelty left scars so deep that both siblings once swore never to marry. They promised each other that no other person would drag them through the kind of pain their mother endured. To them, marriage meant chains. It meant bruises that went unseen and tears that dried before anyone cared to notice but time tested that promise. Her brother met Amoke, and against his own fears, he chose love. He chose marriage. His heart softened where once it was hardened. His sister watched this transformation with disbelief, even anger. To her, it felt like betrayal. How could he break the vow they once whispered in the dark corners of their childhood pain? She, too, had tried to love once. Against all odds, she married, perhaps hoping that her story would turn out differently than their mother's but fate was cruel. Her husband turned out to be everything she had feared: violent, controlling, a man who broke her spirit piece by piece until she finally walked away, carrying the shameful label of divorcee, So when she looked at Amoke, she didn't just see her brother's wife. She saw the symbol of everything she had lost. Amoke represented a possibility that she herself had been denied.
Her cruelty wasn't just spite; it was deflection. She wanted to convince herself that Amoke and her brother didn't deserve this happiness.
So she lashed out.
At Amoke.
At the child.
Not because she hated them, but because their joy reminded her of everything life had stolen from her.
After a month, on a quiet Monday evening, Amoke's husband phone rang. He had just finished rocking the baby to sleep, his mother humming softly in the background. Seeing the doctor's name flash across the screen made his heart skip."Hello, Doctor," he answered quickly, his voice tight with worry. There was a pause on the other end, the kind that made his chest constrict. "Please, I need you to come down to the hospital immediately. It's regarding your wife." His knees nearly buckled. "Doctor… is she" His throat tightened, the words refusing to leave. The doctor's tone remained professional, steady. "Your wife has woken up and she recovered her memories" His mother, noticing the sudden glow in his face, rushed forward. "What is it, my son? Talk to me!" He was full of happiness, forcing his lips to move. "The doctor… he said Amoke has woken up and also recovered her memories."
Joy filled his heart when he heard that his wife had woken up, yet beneath that joy lingered a heavy doubt, she had regained her memories. What if she decides to leave me? the thought refused to let him rest. In haste, he dressed, grabbed his car keys, and drove straight to the hospital. Stepping into her ward, he found her sitting upright on the bed, the doctor still by her side. Moments later, when the doctor left, he rushed forward, clasping her hands with trembling urgency and showering her face with gentle kisses. Then, unable to hold back any longer, he voiced the question that had consumed his mind. What next?