“Her name is Netchi. She has been living with the Obi family in Mushin.”
Madam Adami’s face hardened instantly.
“Our daughter spent twenty years in poverty while we raised someone else’s child?”
Chief Adami stood. “Bring her home. Today.”
“And the other girl?” the doctor asked quietly.
Silence.
Madam Adami answered first.
“She is not ours. Send her back.”
That was how, in a single afternoon, twenty years of love were erased.
Adese was in her bedroom—the room with the pink curtains she had chosen at seven, the bookshelf her father built when she was twelve—when Madam Adami walked in and said, “Pack your things.”
Adese looked up from her book. “Ma?”
“You are not our daughter. There was a mistake at the hospital. Your real family is coming to get you.”
The words made no sense.
Adese stared at the woman she had called mother for twenty years. The woman stared back with cold, finished eyes.
“I said pack your things.”
One suitcase.
That was all they allowed her to take.
At the front gate, a dented Toyota Corolla waited. A tired-looking man stood beside it in a faded shirt. Next to him was a woman in a simple wrapper and blouse, her kind eyes trembling with tears.
“Adese,” the woman said, voice cracking, “I am your mother.”
Adese looked at her. Looked at the rusted car. Looked at the mansion gates closing behind her.
Leave a Comment