Chapter One
The trip wasn't bad.
That's the lie I keep repeating in my head, hoping it will eventually start to sound like the truth.
Sixteen hours and twenty-two minutes trapped in a metal tube suspended above the Atlantic, my thoughts looping, circling, chewing themselves raw. I didn't enjoy it—not even a little. Maybe I'm not optimistic enough. Or maybe optimism is a luxury you lose the moment your life starts being packed into suitcases.
Either way, I had arrived.
Los Angeles.
Mom was already doing that thing she does when she's trying not to fall apart—keeping herself busy to the point of exhaustion. She moved around too fast, too stiff, straightening things that didn't need straightening, smiling when no one was watching. Dad stayed quiet. Neutral. Watching everything like a judge who had already made up his mind but wasn't ready to speak yet. Sylvia didn't look up from her phone. She never does. Fingers glued to the screen, shutting the rest of the world out like it didn't exist.
We stood in front of our new apartment building, and something about it made my chest tighten. Not because it was ugly—it wasn't—but because it felt temporary. Like nothing good ever planned to stay here.
Dragging our suitcases inside felt louder than it should have. Every scrape against the floor grated on my nerves. I leaned forward, pushed the door open, and looked around.
"Hm," I said without thinking.
"What?" Mom snapped, immediately defensive.
"Nothing," I replied, sharper than I meant to.
She paused, then sighed. "I know it's not like Nigeria," she said carefully, like she was choosing each word with tweezers. "But we have to accept that we've moved on. Things are different now. We may not have maids or drivers anymore, but we still have what matters."
She looked at Dad when she said that.
Dad didn't look back.
"We have each other," she finished.
I didn't respond. I couldn't. My body was heavy with exhaustion, my head buzzing. Sixteen hours from Abuja to Los Angeles felt like punishment disguised as opportunity.
The apartment had three rooms. Decent-sized. Clean. Back home we would've called it a three-bedroom flat without thinking twice. Here, it felt… smaller. Not physically. Emotionally. Like the walls were listening.
I took a long shower, letting the water burn against my skin. I stood there longer than necessary, eyes closed, pretending the noise in my head was just water rushing down the drain. By the time I got into bed, my limbs felt useless.
I was halfway asleep when a knock pulled me back.
"Eve," a voice whispered. "Open up."
Sylvia.
"What?" I groaned.
"Family meeting."
I groaned louder and rolled onto my back. "I just got here."
"They're already waiting," she said. "Mom looks… tense."
That figured.
I dragged myself out of bed and followed her to the living room. Mom sat upright, hands folded tightly in her lap. Dad stood by the window, staring out at the street like he was looking for an exit.
"Sit down," Dad said without turning around.
I did.
"Today marks the beginning of a new chapter in our lives," he began. His voice was calm, too calm. "A fresh start. An opportunity to correct past mistakes."
Mom shifted beside him.
"This move wasn't easy," he continued. "It was sudden. Necessary."
His eyes flicked to me. Just for a second.
"We all need to be careful," Mom added quickly. "We need peace. No more trouble."
There it was.
Trouble.
"The last thing we need," Dad said, finally turning to face us, "is unnecessary attention. Especially here. We must blend in. Be grateful. Be disciplined."
He paused again, eyes lingering on me longer this time.
"Some of us," he said slowly, "need to be especially mindful."
The room felt tighter. Smaller.
I nodded, even though I didn't fully understand what he meant—or maybe I did, and I just didn't want to admit it.
The meeting ended as abruptly as it began. No hugs. No reassurance. Just instructions disguised as hope.
I went back to my room and closed the door.
The silence hit harder than the noise ever did.
I sat on the bed, staring at my hands. They were shaking. That's when the tears came—not gently, not slowly, but all at once, like something inside me had cracked.
I pressed my palms into my eyes, but it didn't help.
"You're disgusting," I whispered to myself. "Look at you."
This was Los Angeles. The city people begged to escape to. Beaches. Fame. Possibility. And here I was, acting like a victim.
"They gave you everything," I hissed under my breath. "Everything."
And yet somehow, everything still felt ruined.
My chest tightened as a darker thought crept in—one I didn't want to name. One I didn't want to finish.
If I had just—
I swallowed hard.
No.
I curled onto my side and hugged my pillow like it could stop my thoughts from spilling out. Guilt pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. I didn't know exactly what I'd done wrong, not fully—but I knew enough to know this wasn't random. This wasn't just opportunity.
This was escape.
School starts on Monday.
A fresh start, they called it.
Maybe I could fix things. Maybe I could stay quiet. Invisible. Perfect. Maybe if I did everything right, this would all mean something in the end.
But deep down, buried under fear and denial, something ugly stirred.
Because part of me knew this wasn't the beginning.
It was the aftermath.
And whatever I'd brought with me didn't stay behind in Nigeria.
It was here now.
Waiting.