🦋 IMANI'S POV
Recovery is not a straight line. Nobody tells you that part. They make it sound simple, like once the worst is over, everything should fall into place,like healing should feel like relief.
But it doesn't.
Not immediately.
Sometimes, it just feels like waiting.
The house became quieter after Abraham came back. Not peaceful,just careful. Like everyone was afraid to disturb something fragile. Doors closed gently, voices stayed low, and even laughter came in small portions.
Abraham spent most of his time in the sitting room, one leg stretched out, the other slightly bent, like he was still getting used to his own body again. Sometimes the TV would be on, but he wouldn't be watching it. Just staring.
I noticed, of course I did, but I didn't rush him. Sometimes people don't need questions. They need space.
One afternoon, I found him outside alone.
"You dey avoid us now?" I asked, sitting beside him.
"Fresh air," he replied.
We sat in silence for a while before I said, "You're thinking too much."
He huffed. "You don turn psychologist now?"
I smiled slightly. "I know you."
He went quiet again, then said, "I almost died."
It was so direct, it caught me off guard.
"I keep thinking about it… if that car hit me differently…"
He didn't finish, but he didn't need to.
"But it didn't," I said softly.
"It could have," he replied.
He exhaled slowly. "I don't feel normal. Everything just feels off."
I looked at him properly. "You've been through something serious. You think say you go just bounce back?"
He didn't answer, but I could see it,he wanted to.
"You'll get there," I said. "Not today, not tomorrow, but you will."
He leaned back slightly. "You talk like you get everything figured out."
I laughed under my breath. "If I get everything figured out, you think say I go dey this house?"
That got a small smile out of him, and somehow, that felt like progress.
Inside the house, things were trying to find a new rhythm. Not the old one,a different one.
Mummy watched Abraham too closely, asking questions every few minutes.
"Are you okay?"
"Does it hurt?"
"Should I call the doctor?"
At first, he answered patiently, but one day he snapped.
"Mummy, I'm fine."
The room went quiet.
"I'm not a baby," he added, softer this time.
Mummy just nodded. "Okay."
But her voice changed, and I noticed.
Later that night, I met her in the kitchen. She wasn't cooking, just standing there.
"I just don't want anything to happen again," she said quietly. "When I saw him like that… I felt like God was about to test me in a way I'm not strong enough for. I watched that boy struggle, hustle, take care of us without asking for anything in return. He came rushing here when he found out he had siblings. The first day he came to this house, despite just losing his mother, he took me as his mother. He loved and cared for me. He felt whole just being with us. Blood or not, he is my son as much as you and Favour are… and yet God wants to take that joy away?"
That fear,I understood it too well.
"But He didn't," I said gently.
She looked at me.
"Sometimes, He just shows you how close you are to losing everything."
I didn't have a response to that.
"I just want my children to be okay," she added.
I reached for her hand. "We're okay."
Not perfectly.
But enough.
My business didn't stop, but it didn't grow the way I expected either. Some days, orders came in. Other days, nothing.
"Maybe people don tire," I muttered one afternoon.
Olivia didn't even look up. "Or maybe you're overthinking."
I sighed. "I thought once I started, it would just grow."
She laughed softly. "Who told you that lie?"
I didn't answer.
"Growth is slow," she said. "Sometimes it even goes backward."
I didn't like that word because it felt true.
"But you'll still continue," she added.
"Why?" I asked.
She looked at me. "Because stopping will feel worse."
And just like that, I understood.
That week humbled me.
It started with a simple cake order,or at least, I thought it was simple. The cake didn't rise properly. I saw it immediately, but I still tried to fix it, still decorated it, still sent it out.
That night, the message came:
"This is not what I expected… it's not bad, but it's not worth what I paid."
My chest dropped.
Disappointment hurts differently.
"I messed up," I whispered.
Olivia read the message and handed my phone back.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?" I snapped. "That's all?"
She looked at me calmly. "What do you want me to say? That it didn't happen?"
I shook my head. "I shouldn't have sent it."
"Yeah," she replied.
That one stung.
"You want comfort or you want to grow?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
"Reply the customer," she said. "Be honest."
So I did.
"I'm really sorry. It didn't meet my standard either."
Sending that message felt harder than baking the cake.
The reply came later:
"Thank you for acknowledging."
Not perfect, but not terrible.
"I hate this feeling," I said.
"You'll get used to it," Olivia replied.
"I don't want to get used to failing."
She shook her head. "You won't. You'll get used to learning."
The next day, I didn't feel like doing anything.
Favour stood at my door. "You mess up abi?" he asked.
I sighed. "I just feel like maybe I'm not that good."
He nodded. "Or maybe you just made a mistake."
Simple, but it hit.
"One mistake no define you," he added. "When I fail test, e mean say I no sabi book?"
I smiled a little.
"Go to your kitchen," he said.
I didn't want to, but I went anyway.
Not confidently.
Not perfectly.
But I started again.
That same week, a message came in:
"I need catering for about 35 people. Can you handle it?"
My heart skipped.
Thirty-five was not small, not for me.
"I've never done that before," I told Olivia.
"So?" she replied.
"What if I mess up?"
"You might," she said.
I stared at her.
"Say yes, then figure it out."
So I did.
And immediately, fear followed.
Planning was overwhelming. Ingredients, quantities, timing,everything felt bigger than me.
"What if food no reach?" I asked.
"It will," Olivia said.
"How do you know?"
"You'll make sure it does."
That night, I told Mummy I was scared.
She didn't dismiss it.
"That's how you know it matters," she said. "You don't need to be perfect. You need to be responsible."
That word stayed with me.
The night before the event, I barely slept. Too many thoughts, too many "what ifs." By morning, I was already tired, but I showed up anyway, because I had said yes.
The event wasn't perfect.
Nothing dramatic happened, but small things kept testing me. The rice almost burnt, I caught it early. The soup needed adjusting, I fixed it. Timing almost slipped, I pushed through.
My body was tired, my head was hot, but I didn't stop.
At some point, I stepped outside just to breathe.
"You're doing well," Olivia said.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
In that moment, I realized something.
This wasn't about being perfect.
It was about holding everything together… even when it felt like it might fall apart.
When it ended, I didn't celebrate. I just sat down quietly.
"Food was nice," someone said in passing.
Simple.
But it reached me.
Not perfect.
But good.
And somehow, that meant everything.
That night, the house felt different. Not heavy, not careful, just calm.
Abraham sat with us, laughing a little. Favour talked about school again, more serious this time. Olivia sat beside me, quieter but steadier.
"I think I'll start small," she said.
I smiled. "Say less."
She nodded
Later, I sat alone in my room, thinking.
Not about failure.
Not about fear.
But about how far we had come.
We were all trying. All struggling. All learning,becoming.
Slowly.
Imperfectly.
But honestly.
And for the first time, I understood something clearly:
Growth is not loud.
It's not sudden.
It's not perfect.
It's quiet, uncomfortable, and uncertain,
but it's real.
And maybe that's what makes it matter.
Because we were no longer just surviving.
We were building.
And even when it didn't feel like it…
we were moving forward.
Together.
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