They almost flung me out. “Everyone called me crazy for marrying a 65-year-old woman,” but on our wedding night I saw a mark on her shoulder, heard “I have to tell you the truth,” and realized my entire life had been a lie.
My hand was still raised when she spoke.
—“Because I am your mother.”
The words didn’t land all at once.
They echoed.
Bounced.
Refused to settle into something real.
I laughed.
A short, broken sound.
—“No,” I said immediately. “No, that’s not… that’s not possible.”
Ngozi didn’t move.
She didn’t try to touch me.
Didn’t come closer.
She just stood there… watching me fall apart.
—“Your mother didn’t die when you were ten,” she said quietly.
My chest tightened.
—“Stop,” I snapped. “Don’t—don’t say that.”
But she continued.
Slow.
Careful.
Like someone walking across glass.
—“The woman who raised you… she was your aunt.”
The room tilted.
Memories started shifting.
Small things.
Details I had never questioned.
Why my “mother” never talked about honte my birth.
Why family members sometimes slipped and said things they quickly corrected.
Why there were no pictures of her pregnant.
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