Saoirse is at the airport. I should be surprised. I’m not. She spots me near security and raises one hand.
“You’re following me.”
“I live in Edinburgh.”
“That does not answer the accusation.”
She shows me her boarding pass. Same flight. Apparently the Council wants its Bridge in Lagos too. The first hour passes mostly in silence. I work. Saoirse reads something on her tablet. Somewhere over France, she falls asleep with her head against the window. I look away before she wakes. By the time we land, Lagos hits me the way it always does. Heat first. Then noise. Then the strange familiarity of a place that can change completely and still know exactly who you are. At arrivals, a driver is waiting with my name. Saoirse has her own car.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“To the Council tomorrow.”
“Right.”
She hesitates.
“Your family is here?”
“My mother.”
The answer is enough. She does not ask for the rest. I like that. My mother lives in Ikoyi now, in a house with too many plants and a gate she insists is perfectly secure despite calling me every time she sees a story about burglary online. She opens the door before I knock. For half a second, she only looks at me. Then she hugs me.
“You’ve lost weight.”
“Hello to you too.”
“You have.”
“I haven’t.”
She pulls back.
“When did you last eat proper food?”
“On the plane.”
“That is not food.”
Some things survive continents. Inside, the house smells like ginger, wood polish and whatever she has been cooking since she heard I was coming. She does not ask about the Council immediately. That worries me more than if she did. We eat. She asks about work. I tell her about the Royal Mile project without mentioning celestial disturbances. She tells me my father called yesterday.
“He is still in Istanbul?”
“For now.”
I nod. My parents have been married for thirty-one years and have spent at least ten of them living in different countries for work without once behaving as though this is unusual. After dinner, my mother carries her tea into the sitting room. Then she says, “What did they find?” No introduction. No pretending. I put my glass down.
“You knew they contacted me.”
“I knew they would one day.”
The room changes. I look at her.
“What does that mean?”
She closes her eyes briefly. Not fear. Something older.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “go and hear what they have to say.”
“You spent half my childhood stopping them from speaking to me.”
“I spent half your childhood making sure they did not turn you into a problem they could study.”
“And now?”
“Now you are a man.”
She meets my eyes.
“And whatever they tell you belongs to you, not to me.”
I sleep badly that night. Not because of the dream. Because for the first time in nineteen years, I understand that my mother has been waiting for this day too.