25/06/2026
PART 5
People always ask me: do you regret it?
Let me tell you what happened after I left.
Emeka called me 47 times that first night. I know because I counted. I did not pick up once.
His mother came to my mother's house two days later. She sat down, tied her wrapper tight the way older women do when they are about to say something serious, and she looked at me.
"He has been wrong," she said. "I will not defend what he did. But Kemi, that girl — Adaeze — she pursued my son. She has wanted him since before you married. I tried to warn him."
I listened. I thanked her for coming. And then I told her gently that whether Adaeze pursued him or he pursued her did not change what he chose. Every day for seven years, he chose the lie.
That ended the conversation.
The divorce took eight months.
Adaeze had her baby — a girl — four months after I left. Emeka flew to London for the birth. I know because Chukwudi told me. I did not need to know, but somehow it helped to know. It made everything real in a way that let me stop wondering.
Here is what I want you to understand.
I did not fall apart. I want to be honest — there were nights I lay in the dark and the silence was so heavy I thought it would swallow me. There were mornings I woke up and forgot for one second that my life had changed, and then I remembered, and it felt like falling.
But I did not fall apart.
I went back to work full time. I took a part-time accounting class I had abandoned when Tobenna was born. I found a small apartment. I painted the walls yellow because I had always wanted yellow walls and Emeka said it was too loud.
Tobenna adjusted. Children are stronger than we think when we are honest with them in the right way.
And Emeka?
He came back to Nigeria six months after Adaeze had the baby. Alone. She did not follow him. From what I heard, things were not what he imagined they would be.
He sent me a message last year. Long. Full of apologies. He said he had made the worst mistake of his life.
I read it twice. Then I deleted it.
Not out of bitterness. I want you to know that. I deleted it because some doors, once you close them with dignity, you do not owe anyone a reason to reopen.
I am okay. Better than okay.
And my walls are still yellow.
THE END.
— Ogechi Catherine Ubadigbo
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© ACO Tales | Written by Ogechi Catherine Ubadigbo
