Ethan followed his mother as she left.
"Mummy, I mentioned this to you not for you to blackmail her," Ethan's voice was calm, but I could hear the frustration threaded through it.
"I'm not blackmailing anyone," his mother replied smoothly, arms crossed, eyes sharp as knives. "I just didn't like the… object you brought into this house."
"Object?" Ethan's voice rose slightly, disbelief creeping in. "Mummy, you just called her an object."
"Well…" she paused, letting the word hang in the air. Her lips curled slightly. "She is someone I need to examine carefully. The woman my son brings home… she should be more than… adequate."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "Mummy, Esme is the lady I want to marry. I love her. I don't care about your approval or your tests. She's not an object. She's a person. And she's mine to choose."
"I'd permit you to do that in your dream," she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. "But not here. Not in my house. Not until you prove to me she's worthy."
Ethan's eyes darkened, frustration and something deeper burning behind them. "I've proved enough," he said firmly. "She's smart, she's strong, she's… Esme. You cannot see that? Can't you trust my judgment? Or is it because of some stupid sickle cell disorder that she didn't even cause?"
"I trust your judgment, my son," she said softly, though the glint in her eyes told a different story. "But trust is earned. And tonight… I don't see it fully yet. That's not as minor as you may think."
"Enough, Mummy," Ethan said, exhaling sharply. "She doesn't need your approval to exist in my life. If you can't see that, then you'll have to accept it. Because I'm not changing my mind."
His mother leaned back in the wall, eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressed together. "We shall see," she said, voice calm but final. "We shall see."
The room fell silent, tension thick like fog. I stayed quiet, heart hammering, trying to keep my composure.
* *. *. *. . . *
By the time I left Ethan's house, my chest felt heavy, my eyes dry only in appearance. The taxi ride home was quiet, and I kept my gaze out the window, watching the city blur past. But inside, tears threatened to spill over.
When I arrived, the house was empty. My stepmother had left for her night shift, and the silence of my room was deafening. I sank onto the bed, letting the weight of the evening settle over me.
I kept replaying that question in my mind: Do sickle cell patients have a place in marriage in this generation?
The words burned in my chest. I had tried to answer politely, to maintain composure, to show respect. And yet, her eyes, her judgment, the sharp edge in her tone… it had shaken me more than I cared to admit.
I regretted being polite. Regretted not letting her see the fire, the anger, the refusal to be seen as weak. But I had held it in, swallowed it, pushed it down. And still, it lingered like a shadow.
I sat there in the darkening room, staring at the wall, heart aching. At this point, I wasn't sure I had a place in that home. And the thought terrified me. I wouldn't want to force myself into a home where I wasn't fully accepted, not even by the people closest to the one I loved.
I ran my fingers through my hair, exhaling sharply. I had to figure out my pace with Ethan, my own place in his world – one that might not welcome me fully, but where I would have to decide if I could stand firm.
I closed my eyes, breathing slowly, letting the tension drain slightly. But the suspense, the unknown, the weight of what might come next… it pressed down like a storm waiting to break.
And I knew, even as the room grew darker around me, that tonight wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.
Through the night, my phone kept buzzing. Ethan had seen the message I sent him – short, careful, polite, but clearly laced with frustration. I ignored most of the calls, letting them go to voicemail, but each vibration against the bedside table made my heart leap like it was trying to escape.
By morning, exhaustion had settled deep into my bones. But it wasn't just fatigue. A strange, heavy pain throbbed in my chest, my joints ached, and a wave of dizziness swept over me as I tried to get out of bed.
I shook my head, trying to breathe through it. "Just rest," I whispered to myself. "You're fine. It's nothing."
But the floor beneath me didn't feel solid. My knees buckled before I could catch myself, and suddenly, I was on the ground, heart racing, sweat prickling my skin.
The door burst open. My stepmother appeared, eyes wide with alarm. "Esmeralda!" she yelled, rushing to my side.
"I…I just… dizziness," I gasped, trying to push myself up, but my body refused to obey.
She shook her head firmly. "No. We are not taking chances." Her hands were firm, guiding me carefully. "Stay with me. We're going to the hospital."
The taxi ride felt like a blur. Lights streaked past, honking cars, the city moving faster than I could process. My stepmother held my hand tightly, whispering words I could barely hear over the rush of my own fear.
At the hospital, doctors moved quickly, murmuring instructions, checking vitals, running tests. Machines beeped, monitors flashed, and I felt detached from my own body. Everything felt unreal – the sterile smell, the bright lights, the hurried footsteps.
My stepmother stayed by my side, holding my hand, her face tense but calm. "You're going to be fine," she said, though her voice quivered slightly. "Just hold on."
I tried to speak, tried to reassure her, but the words wouldn't come. My head spun, my chest tightened, and the room seemed to tilt around me.
"Miss Augustine," a nurse said softly, "we need to stabilize her. Can you tell us where the pain is?"
I tried. My lips moved, but the words faltered. Panic rose inside me, not just from the pain, but from the fear that I wasn't in control.
And then, the doctor appeared. A flurry of instructions. "She's showing signs of a sickle cell crisis," he said, calm but urgent. "We need to monitor her immediately."
I closed my eyes, gripping the edge of the bed, trying to steady my racing heart. Fear, exhaustion, and a strange mix of relief flooded me. At least now, someone knew. At least now, I wasn't hiding anymore.
My stepmother squeezed my hand, whispering fiercely, "We'll get through this. Don't fight me, don't fight them. Just breathe."
I nodded weakly, though I wasn't sure I had the strength to do anything. The machines beeped steadily, echoing like a countdown, each tone a reminder of fragility.
And through it all, my mind flicked to Ethan - the questions, the judgment, the tension from yesterday. Would he rush to my side? Would he stay silent, unsure of what to say? The thought made my chest tighten further.
The room quieted for a moment, only the soft hum of monitors and the faint clatter of shoes in the corridor breaking the stillness. But outside the window, the world continued - oblivious, moving on.
I exhaled shakily, and for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to feel scared. Afraid of the crisis, afraid of the judgment, afraid of everything that had been pressing down on me.
And then I heard her voice again, calm, steady, sharp in my mind, the one that had tested me yesterday. Do sickle cell patients have a place in marriage in this generation?
The thought burned through me as I lay there, tubes hooked to my veins, hands trembling. The question didn't leave me. Not ever. And I realized, even in this vulnerable, weakened state, that my battle was far from over.
Someone came in, checking the monitors, adjusting an IV. My stepmother leaned close. "I'll stay," she whispered. "You rest now."
I nodded, eyes fluttering shut. But just before sleep claimed me, I felt a prickling in my chest, a warning, a signal, a pulse of something unknown.
And at that moment, I wasn't sure if I was safe, if I had a future in anyone's house, or if the storm had only just begun.
The monitors beeped steadily. And in the quiet of the hospital room, a question lingered in the air: Would I survive the night – and what would tomorrow bring?