The first time Chris stepped into Bella's mother's house, it felt like the world had exhaled.
A small, neat bungalow. Lavender in the air. Green tea is steaming on the center table. Photographs of a life already lived lined the walls.
Bella's mum had heard too much about Chris to leave him as just a name on her daughter's lips. She wanted to see the man behind the stories — not in pictures or posts, but standing in her living room where nothing could hide.
After the divorce, she took on an extended assignment in Nigeria, her birthplace. Two years had passed. Bella hadn't seen her in so long that even the air of Abuja felt like homecoming.
This visit was overdue, and Chris was coming with her, carrying the weight of first impressions on his shoulders.
Her mother was forty-six, breathtaking in a quiet, effortless way. She smiled at him with a softness Bella hadn't seen in years.
And that scared her. How could her mother, who barely knew him, be so soft, so open?
Chris knew how to win people over. He listened. He helped in the kitchen without being asked. He laughed at her mother's dry jokes. He even fixed the noisy screen door that had been a nuisance forever.
Bella's mom was a private investigator. She loved food and friendly conversations. Within days, she was already calling him "my son." For a fleeting moment, Bella believed: maybe this is the calm after the storm.
Life pretended to be kind again for two months: quiet evenings, shared meals, and slow sunsets. For a moment, Bella believed this was how healing began.
She tried to stay in her mother's room, at least for the first few nights. That didn't last.
Chris was gravity—warm, insistent, flawed, but irresistible. And so, the nights became theirs again.
What were you expecting? That they would "saint up" because her mother was home? No, they made love on nights her mother worked late and even on nights she didn't. Deep, feverish, breathless love. The kind that leaves bite marks on skin and bruises on the soul.
And then, the nausea came.
At first, she blamed a skipped meal, a sour tongue, and headaches on stress. Then it grew fangs: wild cravings, fevers, and exhaustion. Chicken Republic's hot jollof rice became her midnight gospel. The scent of her neighbor's pepper soup drove her wild; she swore her life depended on tasting it.
Her mother was away for two weeks on a case. Two weeks is too long. The sickness lingered like a ghost that refused to leave.
And then the test.
One faint line. Not two. She brushed it off until her period was two months late. The hospital confirmed it three months in. A baby was conceived in her mother's house in Abuja, while the walls still smelled of forgiveness.
The young doctor who delivered the news was too fine—light-skinned and disarmingly warm. Bella almost forgot her breath when he smiled. But his words were knives wrapped in silk.
"You are pregnant."
She didn't tell her mother at first. She wore the secret like a stone in her belly, hoping it would dissolve. But the cravings grew bolder, the vomiting louder, and the nights colder.
When her mother found out, everything warm in the house turned cold.
The woman who had once held her hand through heartbreak now avoided her eyes. No more late-night gist. No more gentle teasing about her cooking. Cold glances. Tight lips. Silence. A kind of indifference that cuts deeper than anger.
It wasn't just disappointment. It was history—her mother's history replaying itself. Teenage pregnancy. A man who vanished. Shame that turned a young girl into a single mother.
The world tilted. Not because she didn't know how this happened; she did. But everything now felt too loud, real, and heavy for her shoulders.
Chris was back in school finishing his finals, and she had to finish her attachment program. He had been gone for more than a month. And Bella? Bella was sitting in the bathroom, clutching the proof of a new life she wasn't sure she had the strength to carry.
"You can't keep this," her mother said one night, the glow of the television barely touching her face.
"But Mum…"
"You're in school. You have a future. What do you think will happen to you? To us? Do you want to carry a man's burden while he builds himself elsewhere?"
Bella didn't answer. Her mother had been here once, young and pregnant and alone. And now, seeing her daughter walk the same road, she couldn't bear it.
Bella had to tell Chris. She needed a support system that wasn't judgmental.
When she finally told him, his reaction was almost gentle.
"Wow… that's big news. Wait! Are you serious?"
His voice had a grin, the kind you hear before someone realizes this isn't a joke. Then, nothing.
Then, hours later, a longer call, the longest they'd had in weeks.
"I want what you want," he whispered. "Whatever you decide, I'll support it."
It didn't feel like support. It felt like escape, an avoidance of responsibility dressed as understanding.
That night, Bella lay in bed with vomit still bitter in her throat. She whispered into the dark, "Why is it that when I need you, you disappear?" "I need all the emotional support at least. If I didn't call about the pregnancy, we wouldn't have spoken for that long."
The days blurred—cravings, fever, and nausea that came like a thief. Her mother spoke to a doctor. They decided before Bella felt ready: the pills, the pain, the blood.
The world stayed quiet after that. Her body tried to heal; her mind didn't know how.
Chris called three days later. "I'm sorry, Bella," he said. "I wanted to be there. My bank held my funds, my software crashed, and my team was on my neck. I didn't even know how to breathe."
She almost laughed. "You didn't know how to breathe, Chris? I was bleeding every night. Watching my body become a graveyard for a child I wanted to meet. And you couldn't even call?"
"Babe, don't do this. I tried—"
"You didn't try," she said, snapping. "You vanished. You put everything—work, money, your plans—before me. And now, even before your child. On the night of my abortion, I almost died.
My mom wailed. People rushed in. I lay cold, half-conscious, praying to wake up and you? Not a text. Not a call. Then a few days after you rang me, like it was Monday morning at the office."
Silence. She imagined him rubbing his temple, his favorite escape when guilt caught up.
"I can fix this," he whispered. "No, Chris," she said, voice steady for the first time in weeks. "You can't fix what you didn't bother to hold while it broke."
After the call, Bella stepped outside. The harmattan wind picked up, scattering dry leaves across the veranda. She finally admitted to the feelings she was avoiding in Spain: the fairytale was over.
His kisses were sweet. His touch was warm. His strokes carved music into her skin. Yet none of it mattered. The void still had a name.
Abandonment!
And abandonment, she learned, doesn't scream. It sits in silence beside you, watches you bleed, and only speaks when it's too late.