My mother is cutting peppers when I arrive. Not sitting dramatically in a dark room. Not waiting with a box of secrets. Cutting peppers.
“Wash your hands,” she says.
“Mum.”
“Wash your hands first.”
I do. There is something almost insulting about being twenty-six, carrying the biggest question of your life into a kitchen and still being told not to touch food with dirty hands. I sit opposite her.
“Did you know?”
She keeps cutting for a few seconds.
“Yes.”
The knife stops.
“Not everything.”
“How much?”
“When I was pregnant, an old scholar asked to see me. She said your chart was unusual before you were even born.”
I stare at her.
“That is possible?”
“In their world, apparently.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were a child.”
“I stopped being a child.”
“And by then you wanted nothing to do with them.”
“That was my decision to make.”
“Yes.”
The answer comes quietly. No defence. That makes anger harder. She puts the knife down.
“They wanted constant assessments. Schools they approved. People around you who could observe you. They called it protection.”
“And you said no.”
“I said you were my son before you were their question.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. There are things a parent can say that do not erase what they kept from you but explain the shape of the decision. This is one of them.
“Did Dad know?”
“Enough.”
“Where is he?”
“Istanbul. He wanted to come when he heard.”
“You told him?”
“He is your father, Emre.”
I rub my forehead. My mother reaches across the counter.
“Are you afraid?”
“No.”
She gives me the look that has been defeating my lies since childhood.
“Fine. A little.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Fear means you understand that choices have consequences.”
I laugh despite myself. She returns to the peppers. I watch her.
“What should I do?”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
“No?”
“I made my choice before you were born. This one is yours.”
There is no prophecy in her voice. No belief that I am meant for something. Just my mother refusing to decide my life twice. That night, I message Saoirse. Are you awake? Her reply comes a minute later. Unfortunately. I type: Walk tomorrow? She sends back: Lagos heat has damaged your judgment. Then: 8 a.m. I smile at my phone. My mother notices from across the room. I immediately stop. She notices that too.