Esther had been proud, too proud. She never spoke about the worst days. David only learned pieces of the truth after she was gone. How she’d lost her job cleaning offices when the company downsized. How the rent fell behind. How sickness crept in quietly, stealing her strength. And how one afternoon she had taken David by the hand and walked to a bus terminal not unlike the one Mama Adana sat beside.
She had asked strangers for help. Not loudly, not desperately, just enough to survive. David remembered that day now, the shame he felt as a child, the way he’d stared at the ground while adults walked past. He remembered one woman stopping, an older woman, her face kind, her hands rough with age.
She had given his mother money. $10. David’s chest tightened. At the office, he called Samuel. Do you remember anything about the woman who helped our mother? He asked without greeting. Samuel hesitated. Why are you asking now? Just answer me. I was younger than you,” Samuel said slowly. “But I remember an older woman, lame in one leg.
She used to bring bread sometimes.” David closed his eyes. The resemblance was no longer coincidence. That evening, he drove back to the bus terminal long after sunset. Vendors were packing up. Buses pulled away in clouds of dust. Mama Adana’s spot was empty. “Have you seen the old woman?” David asked a nearby vendor. Theman shook his head. Not today.
What about yesterday? Maybe [clears throat] early. He shrugged. She said she wouldn’t be coming anymore. David’s heart skipped. She said that yes, she told the children goodbye. David drove home in silence. At the penthouse, Joy noticed his agitation immediately. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
David ignored her and went straight to his study. He pulled out an old box he hadn’t opened in years. His mother’s things. letters, receipts, hospital papers. At the bottom lay a folded piece of paper. A name. Adana. David stared at it, breath shallow. Joy stood at the doorway watching. You found something? She said quietly. Yes.
David replied, his voice tight. Something you didn’t want me to find. Joy crossed her arms. What are you talking about? That woman, David said. She knew my mother. Joy scoffed. David, you’re projecting. She helped her. He continued. She helped us. Joyy’s expression hardened. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t change anything. It changes everything.” David snapped.
Joy stepped closer. “What exactly do you think this means? That she’s entitled to your life, your wedding, your future?” David looked at her. “I think it means I owe her more than $10.” Joy shook her head. “This obsession is dangerous.” The word struck him. “Obsessed?” David turned away.
The next few days passed in tension. Mama Adana did not return to the bus terminal. David sent Lydia to search nearby clinics and shelters. No sign. The unease grew into dread. Meanwhile, Joy focused on the wedding. Invitations finalized. Seating arrangements confirmed. Security tightened. Every detail was perfect. Too perfect.
The night before the wedding, David couldn’t sleep. He stood on the balcony staring at the city lights, wondering how a woman who asked for so little had come to mean so much. Across town, Mama Adana sat on a wooden bench outside the cathedral. She had arrived hours earlier, moving slowly, leaning heavily on her stick.
The guards at the gate watched her with suspicion, but said nothing for now. She wasn’t there to cause trouble. She was there to keep a promise. In her bag, wrapped carefully in cloth was a small envelope. Inside it lay an old hospital bracelet, faded and cracked, bearing a name David knew by heart. Esther Chibway.
Mama Adana touched it gently. “You said he would come back,” she whispered. “And he did.” Morning came. The city woke to celebration. Cars lined the streets. Music echoed. Guests arrived dressed in silk and gold. Inside the cathedral, David stood in a private room, adjusting his cufflinks. Samuel watched him closely.
