Bolanle let out a bitter laugh.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. You have been saying tomorrow for fifteen years, Toby.”
The girls fell silent.
Even little Titi stopped playing.
Toby lowered his eyes. “I am trying.”
“Trying?” Bolanle snapped. “Trying does not feed five children.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Yetunde stepped forward carefully. “Mama, Daddy worked all day—”
“Stay out of this,” Bolanle cut in sharply.
The girl froze.
Toby raised a hand gently. “It’s okay.”
But Bolanle was no longer speaking only about money. Years of shame poured out of her.
“Every day I go to the market and watch other women wearing fine clothes. They talk about Lagos, about businesses, about husbands who actually succeed.” Her voice dropped. “And then they look at me.”
No one spoke.
Bolanle stared at the cracked walls of the house.
“This is not the life I was meant to live.”
Toby felt his chest tighten. He had heard these words before, but tonight they sounded different—harder, colder, final.
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