They walked in smiling.
My mother, Nkechi, came first, arms open for a hug I did not return. She hesitated for only a second before letting her arms fall and brushing past me into the living room. Chinedu followed with a six-pack of cheap beer and a loud “Mama’s favorite girl better have pepper soup.” Ifeoma brought store-bought puff-puff and kissed my cheek like nothing had changed.
“You look tired, Amara,” my mother said, settling onto my couch without being invited. “You’re not sleeping well again? That’s what happens when you live alone.”
I closed the door and turned the lock.
“Sit down, everyone,” I said. “I have something for you.”
Chinedu dropped into an armchair and cracked open a bottle. “She’s serving us first? See rich sister o.”
I walked to the dining table where three white envelopes waited. Each one had a name written by hand. Nkechi. Chinedu. Ifeoma. I picked them up and handed each person their envelope without a word.
“What’s this?” Ifeoma asked, turning hers over.
“Open it,” I said.
My mother opened hers first. She pulled out the pages—screenshots printed clearly, messages highlighted in yellow. I watched her face change. The smile froze. Then it fell completely.
“What is this nonsense?” she whispered.
Chinedu was reading his. The beer bottle stopped halfway to his mouth. “Amara, what the hell?”
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