Maria wiped the sweat from her forehead as she stacked the tomatoes neatly in her small market stall. Business was slow today, and the sun was wicked. She glanced down at Junior, her five-year-old son, who sat on a small stool beside her, drawing shapes in the sand with a broken spoon.
"Junior," she called softly, "don't wander far, okay?"
"Yes, Mummy," he replied without looking up.
Maria's eyes lingered on him. Same sharp nose. Same jawline. But it was his eyes that gave her chills—brown with golden flecks, the same as Alexander Madu's. She had prayed every day that no one would notice. That people would just see him as a normal boy. Her boy. Not the child of a billionaire.
She had hidden for five years. Changed cities. Changed names. Never told a soul what happened in that hotel room.
He had taken her innocence. Left her with a scar and a blessing.
And yet, every time she looked at Junior, her heart softened. No matter how hard her life had become, she never regretted him.
"Madam Maria!" a neighbour called out suddenly. "You see the big man that pass here just now? Fine suit, security everywhere. Big Jeep!"
Maria's body stiffened. "What man?"
"I don't know o! But he was asking around… said he was looking for a woman named Maria with a small boy. Na you dey hide rich man pikin?" the woman laughed playfully.
Maria's heart dropped.
Her eyes shot to Junior—still playing, still unaware. She grabbed his hand quickly and began packing her goods.
"We're closing for today," she said, barely able to keep her voice steady.
"But it's not even noon—"
"I said we're closing!"
She stuffed everything into a sack, picked up Junior, and started walking fast, her slippers slapping the hot ground.
She had been found.
The past she tried to bury had risen from the dust. And this time, running might not be enough.