The next morning came with rain—gentle at first, then heavy like the heavens had been holding back tears for too long. Maria sat by the window, watching the droplets race down the cracked glass. Junior played quietly on the floor, humming to himself as he arranged plastic bottle caps into a circle.
Her fingers traced the edges of Alexander's business card. She had almost thrown it away—twice. But something held her back. Curiosity? Hope? Or just the weight of five silent years?
Then came the knock.
She rushed to the door, heart racing, expecting him. But it wasn't Alexander. It was a woman. Tall, elegant, dressed in black with sunglasses and a small leather bag.
"Maria Okoro?" the woman asked.
"Yes?"
"I'm from the Madu Group. Mr. Alexander sent me. He asked that you consider moving into a serviced apartment. Fully paid. Safer. Cleaner. More comfortable for you and the boy."
Maria's mouth dropped slightly.
"I don't want his pity—"
"It's not pity, madam. He said, and I quote: 'She doesn't have to forgive me, but she doesn't have to suffer either.'"
Maria stood still, unsure what to say.
The woman handed her a small envelope. "The address is here. No pressure. No strings. If you change your mind, call the number inside."
Then she walked away, umbrella swinging.
Later that evening, Maria sat on the floor with Junior sleeping against her. She opened the envelope—photos of a clean, two-bedroom flat. A playground. A school nearby.
She bit her lip, fighting emotion.
She didn't want to owe Alexander anything.
But was she denying him—or denying her son?
Sometimes, pride cost more than it gave.
She glanced at the card again. The number stared back at her like a challenge.
Was it time to stop running?