They say experience is the best teacher — but at its worst, someone still has to teach you experience. We always talk about patience as though we have all the time in the world to teach it, but the truth is, patience only reveals itself to those impatient enough to wait for it.
Many times, I've sat and listened to my mom tell the story of how they met-my father. How they swore to stick together through thick and thin. You can probably guess how that ended. Someone who's never been through it might call him patient for staying as long as he did — but I knew better, long before I turned fourteen.
People always joked that I had the kind of face that made strangers trust me too easily — soft around the edges but sharpened by a restless energy I could never quite sit still with. My sandy blond hair refused to behave, and my frame — all lean muscle and wiry lines — made me look like someone built to move, to run.
My father was the same, at least once. He had given me his bone structure — the high cheekbones, the square jaw softened by kindness. His hair, once sun-washed like mine, was now silvering at the temples, as though someone had taken a piece of lightning and dimmed it. His eyes, though, hadn't changed. They were still sharp — almost hauntingly so — the kind that could strip away excuses without saying a word.
When he sat down, I saw it: that familiar shift in his posture, the subtle adjustment he always made before saying something serious.
"I spoke to your mother for a long time," he began, after a pause heavy enough to press against my chest. "We discussed a lot of things…"
My jaw tightened before I could stop it, and maybe he noticed, because he added quickly,
"You're in your finals now, right?"
Did he expect me to smile? To joke about exams, like this was just another normal evening?
He had just appeared — not unexpectedly, really, though Mom had warned me yesterday at Milaj's party — but still it's too soon for me to know how to act.
I had been thinking about it ever since.
About what I'd say.
About how I'd look him in the eye and refuse whatever he had planned.
About Vivian's strange, magnetic silence that wouldn't leave my head no matter how hard I tried, the soft kiss.
If not for her, I probably would have stayed at the party longer — as a quiet act of rebellion — just to make him wait. It would have broken Mom's heart, though, since she had pleaded with me to at least come and hear him out.
So when she nudged me now to give him a reply, I mumbled,
"Yeah. Hope no issues?"
"That's great," he said, his face lighting up as if he had gotten exactly what he wanted.
I wanted to hate that smile, to push back — but when I saw Mom sitting there beside him, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone pale, I froze. She wasn't looking at me — her eyes were fixed on the floor, like she couldn't bear to watch what was about to happen. Guilt rolled off her in waves, and that hurt more than anything my dad could have said.
The house hadn't changed much since he left. Maybe that's why he looked so at ease here, as if time had stood still just for him. The first two years without him had been the worst — I had been too young to understand, but old enough to feel the weight of the gossip, the way people looked at us differently. Mom had it even worse, carrying everything on her shoulders, and I often wondered if this man ever thought about that.
"I know you're aware that I lost my wife recently," he said quietly.
I almost laughed out loud. What's that got to do with me?
But the sound caught in my throat.
I glanced at Mom — her lips were pressed together, her face unreadable, but there it was again: that tiny flicker of guilt, the way her shoulders seemed to fold inward like she was hiding from the weight of her own decision.
If not for Chosen's mom, and the few friends who stood by us, Mom wouldn't have survived those years, I thought, gripping my hands together until my knuckles whitened.
Then came the part that broke whatever patience I had been clinging to.
"I want you to come live with us," he said. "By us, I mean in Lekki — with me and my stepdaughter. I've spoken to your mom, and I'll take care of your schooling, from your finals to university level. Forest High is a great school. I'd like you to meet Vivy — she's also in her finals. I think you'd get along."
Mom's chin dipped lower. She still wouldn't look at me, and in that moment, I knew she had already agreed.
My heartbeat thudded so loudly I could hear it in my ears. Heat rushed up my neck, and I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached. My knee bounced under the table, too fast to control, and it felt like the air in the room had turned too thick to breathe.
I stared at him, chest tight, vision narrowing.
This man must be crazy.
The words almost slipped out, but instead, I shoved the chair back so hard it scraped against the floor, stood up, and walked out of the room without looking back.
Mom flinched at the sound, half rising as if to call me back, but stopped when Dad shifted in his seat.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Was this what they called a panic attack?
"Benjamin… Benjamin, wait…"
My mother's voice reached me — frail, tired, but familiar enough to stop me in my tracks.
I could forget a lot of things.
But not that voice.
Not the voice of the woman to whom I owed the world
I didn't stop until I was outside.
The evening air hit me like a slap — sharp, cool, too real. I leaned against the wall by the balcony, pressing my palms flat against the rough cement just to stop them from shaking. My chest was heaving, like I had just run laps, but I hadn't gone far.
Why did it feel like she had betrayed me?
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the heat in my chest to go away, but it stayed, burning slow and mean. Mom hadn't said a word — not one — and somehow that made it worse. If she had begged me, shouted at me, anything, I could have fought back.
But she just sat there.
Silent.
I kicked at the flower pot by the door, hard enough to send it wobbling but not enough to knock it over. The sound of clay scraping against cement echoed too loudly in the quiet.
My throat felt tight, my eyes stung, but I refused to let anything fall. Not here. Not where anyone could see.
I thought about Dad's face when I stood up — calm, like he had expected it. Like he already had a plan for what I'd do next.
And Mom's face…
No, I didn't want to think about that.
I dropped onto the low step, elbows on my knees, gripping my hair. A part of me wanted to run — just keep running until I couldn't see that house again — but I couldn't leave Miguel.
Not her.
Even if she had just chosen him.
The sun was already high when I woke, burning through the half-drawn curtains like it wanted to drag me out of bed. My head throbbed — not from alcohol this time, but from everything I'd been thinking about since last night.
I stayed in bed longer than usual, listening to the house. The clatter of pans in the kitchen. Miguel's soft voice hummed along with the radio. My father's deeper voice somewhere near the living room, steady but quieter than I remembered — like someone who'd been speaking too softly for too long.
I finally dragged myself out, threw on a shirt, and padded to the doorway.
He was there, sitting exactly where I knew he'd be — straight-backed, hands folded like he'd been waiting all morning. Miguel sat on the edge of the couch, her smile tense, like someone trying to convince a child the storm had already passed.
"Benjamin," my father said. His voice was calm, but there was something behind it, something tired.
I nodded but didn't sit.
"We should finish what we started yesterday," he said.
Miguel glanced at me — that please just hear him out look — so I stayed standing but crossed my arms.
"You said you wanted me to live with you," I said flatly.
"Yes."
"In that house?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"It's empty now. It's too big for just me and Vivy. You'd have your own space."
I laughed once, sharp and humorless.
"You mean your stepdaughter."
He didn't flinch.
"Yes. She's still in her finals, like you. And she's been... quiet since her mom passed."
The room felt heavier.
"You think dragging me there is going to fix anything?" I asked, and for a second, my voice cracked — which only made me angrier.
He looked at me steadily, the way only a man who's already been broken can.
"No. I think it might stop you from breaking too."
Miguel reached for my wrist like she used to do when I was little.
"I'm not saying yes," I muttered.
"You don't have to," my father said gently. "Just think about it."
I walked past them into the backyard before they could see whatever expression was trying to climb onto my face.
The air was cool, still carrying last night's rain. I sat on the low wall and stared at the sky until my phone buzzed.
A single message from Chosen:
> So? You packing your bags yet, Lekki boy? 💼😏
I snorted despite myself.
> Not yet.
Another bubble popped up almost immediately:
> Good. Don't go acting brand new. Next thing you'll be wearing slippers inside house and calling it "slides."
I hesitated, fingers hovering. Then I typed back:
> I might.
There was a long pause before his reply came:
> …say swear 😐
I didn't answer. Just stared at the screen until it dimmed. My stomach twisted, a tight knot that wouldn't loosen.
Through the window, I caught a glimpse of my father's silhouette, still sitting where I left him. Waiting.
The thought hung there like smoke.
If I said yes, it wouldn't just be a new house or a new school.
It would mean walking into a life haunted by a ghost.
And somewhere in that house, Vivian Temphardy was waiting.
What a funny thought.