Episode 3: The Night She Touched My Hand
The night was warm and still.
I had just returned from CDS and was too tired to cook. The moment I dropped my bag, there was a soft knock on my door.
“Mummy?” I called.
“It’s me,” she replied, as usual — softly.
She held a bowl of steaming ogbono soup and a plate of eba. No explanation. Just the same sad, kind eyes.
“Thank you, ma—sorry, mummy,” I said with a tired smile. It had become second nature by now.
“You work too hard,” she said. “You need strength. Sit and eat.”
She followed me into my room.
That wasn’t unusual. She had sat with me a few times before, just talking. But tonight felt… different. The light was dim. The air hung heavier than usual. I could feel something in the silence, but I couldn’t name it.
Old Memories, New Emotions
She sat on the only chair in the room while I sat on the bed with my plate. As I ate, she talked about her past. How she used to sew clothes. How Chinedu used to eat so fast she’d warn him his wife would run away.
We laughed.
Then, silence.
She stared at me for a moment — too long. Her eyes shimmered, like she was trying to speak but holding back.
I looked away. Cleared my throat. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”
She nodded, eyes still on me. “He was all I had. And sometimes… when I see you…”
She trailed off.
The silence was louder now.
She stood up. Walked toward me slowly. I froze.
Then gently, she touched my hand.
It wasn’t rough or forceful. Just… soft. Like a whisper. Like she was asking a question without words.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
“Are you okay, mummy?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
She smiled, but it was a tired, complicated smile. One that said she had crossed a line—and she knew it.
“You remind me so much of him,” she whispered.
Crossing the Line
The air in the room changed. My heart raced. I was confused—between pity, warmth, and a strange tension that I couldn’t define.
She didn’t say anything more. Just sat back down, this time closer than before.
And then she asked:
“Do you sometimes feel alone here?”
I nodded. “Every day.”
She reached out again and held my hand fully this time. Warm, firm. Like someone trying to hold onto something lost.
“I’m here,” she said softly.
And I didn’t know what hurt more — the fact that I didn’t pull away… or the fact that, in that moment, I didn’t want to.
Regret in the Morning?
When she left that night, I didn’t sleep well. I kept replaying the scene, trying to convince myself it was just motherly affection. But something had changed.
Lines had blurred. Walls had cracked.
And in the days that followed, things only got more complicated.
Because the next time she knocked… she wasn’t holding food.
She was holding a secret.
