The silence after the phone call was a different kind of noise. It was the hollow, ringing aftermath of an explosion. Mina watched Adams, still slumped in the cheap dining chair, and saw a man systematically dismantled. His mother's words hadn't just angered him; they had deconstructed him, piece by piece, and left the rubble behind.
He hadn't defended her. His silence had been a confirmation, a silent nod to every poisonous accusation. She is a sickness. A cankerworm. She has stolen you.
The pain was so acute it felt like a physical wound. She wanted to rage, to scream at the injustice, to shake him and demand he see the manipulation for what it was. But a deeper, more terrifying instinct held her still. She saw the war raging behind his eyes—the loyal son versus the husband and father. And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that if she pushed him now, he would break. And she would lose him forever.
So, she did the only thing she could. She turned away. She walked to the bassinet where Chosen slept, blissfully unaware of the war being waged over his existence. She adjusted his blanket, her fingers trembling, and let the hot, silent tears fall where he couldn't see them.
She felt him move behind her. Heard his ragged intake of breath.
"Mina."
She didn't turn around. She couldn't. If she saw the conflict, the shame in his eyes, her own composure would shatter.
"Every word she said…" he began, his voice gravelly and torn. "It was… it was like she had a script to my deepest fears."
Mina closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to land. Yes, she does. And she knows how to use them.
"She said I chose a room over my legacy," he whispered, the words laced with a self-loathing that made her heart clench.
Finally, she turned. He was standing now, looking at her, his expression one of utter devastation.
"Did you?" she asked, her voice quiet, stripped of all accusation. It was a simple, terrifying question.
He stared at her, and for a long moment, she saw the ghost of Hajiya Zainab's narrative in his gaze. The easy path. The familiar shame. The pull of the legacy.
Then, his eyes shifted. They moved from her face to the bassinet, to his son. To the tiny, perfect human being that was their legacy, regardless of the name or the address.
Something shifted in his face. The confusion began to harden. The rubble of his old self started to coalesce into something new, something more solid.
"No," he said. The word was quiet, but it was firm. It was the first firm thing he'd said since the knock on the door. "I chose a family over a museum. I chose a future over a past."
He took a step toward her, then another. He didn't reach for her. He just stood there, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time since the confrontation.
"She blamed you for everything," he said, the realization dawning in his eyes not as a question, but as a horrifying fact. "She twisted it all to make you the villain. And I… I just sat there and let her."
"You did," Mina whispered, the truth finally spoken aloud.
"I am so sorry," he breathed, the words carrying the weight of his failure. "I was… I was back in that house. I was ten years old again, failing to meet her expectations. I forgot who I was supposed to be now. Here."
The admission was more powerful than any defense. It was the crack in the dam.
He did reach for her then, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his thumbs wiping away her tears. His touch was hesitant, asking for forgiveness.
"She is wrong," he said, his voice gaining strength with each word. "You are not a sickness. You are my health. You are not dividing my family. You are my family. You and him." He glanced at Chosen. "You are the best choice I have ever made. The only real legacy that matters."
He was choosing. Right there, in the middle of their shabby, sacred apartment, he was finally, unequivocally, choosing them.
The relief was so profound it made her knees weak. She leaned into his touch, her hands coming up to cover his.
His phone buzzed again on the table. Then again. Insistent. The screen lit up with the same caller ID. HOME.
Adams didn't even look at it. His eyes remained locked on hers.
The buzzing stopped. A moment of silence. Then it started again. This time, it was a different number. Aisha. Then another. Tunde. The family was mobilizing. The pressure campaign was beginning.
A strange calm settled over Adams's features. The conflict was gone, replaced by a resolute peace. He walked over to the table, picked up the buzzing, lit-up phone, and stared at it for a long second.
Then, with a deliberation that felt monumental, he held down the power button.
The screen went dark.
The silence that followed was not hollow. It was full. It was their silence. Their space. Their choice.
He turned back to her. "They will not poison this," he said. "They will not set the terms. We will."
For the first time since Hajiya Zainab had stormed into their lives, Mina felt a flicker of something that wasn't fear or dread. It was hope. It was the sight of her husband, not just as a man fleeing his past, but as a man building a fortress around his future.
He had distanced himself from his family. He had sided with her.
But as the echoes of the silenced phone seemed to linger in the air, Mina knew this wasn't an end. It was a declaration of their own. The war was far from over. Hajiya Zainab would not accept this silence. She would see it as the ultimate act of defiance.
And her fury, once focused on blaming Mina, would now be aimed directly at her son. The battle lines had been redrawn, and the real fight was just beginning.