The house was cloaked in a heavy silence. Outside, the night wind rustled the leaves on the carcia trees in the compound, brushing gently against the windows. It was past 10 p.m., and Dexta had long fallen asleep. The television in the living room blinked quietly in the background, but neither of them was watching.
Sally sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes with slow, deliberate movements. He was tired, not just in body, but in spirit. The day had been long, and the moments with Zaria and Dexta had been the only peace he had found. But now, back in this house, everything felt tense—heavy with unspoken words.
Beatrice leaned against the bedroom doorway, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were sharp, lips pressed in a thin, unreadable line. She had been waiting for the right moment. And now it had come.
"Where do you always go every Sunday?" she asked, her voice calm but icy.
Sally paused, then slowly looked up at her. "What kind of question is that?"
"You heard me," Beatrice said, stepping further into the room. "I'm asking you where you always go with Dexta every Sunday. Why do you drive to Entebbe?"
Sally stood up slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly. "So now you're spying on me?"
Beatrice didn't flinch. "Call it whatever you want. I just want the truth."
Sally let out a small, bitter laugh. "Truth? Since when have you been interested in truth, Beatrice?"
"Don't twist this, Sally," she snapped. "I've seen the photos. You're always with a young girl at Orbit International School. Who is she?"
Sally's jaw clenched.
This was the moment he had feared. He had known it would come—he just hadn't expected it so soon. He forced himself to remain calm.
"She's my friend's daughter," he said after a pause.
Beatrice's eyes narrowed. "Which friend?"
"His name is Jonathan," Sally replied quickly. "He works abroad. Her mother passed away some years back. Jonathan asked me to check on her now and then. That's all."
"Check on her?" Beatrice repeated, clearly unconvinced. "Isn't that what relatives are for? Doesn't she have aunties or uncles who can check on her? Cousins? Neighbors? Why you?"
Sally kept his expression neutral. "Jonathan is more than a friend. He's like a brother to me. We grew up together. He trusts me."
Beatrice stepped closer, her voice dropping to a more suspicious tone. "And how old is this girl?"
Sally didn't blink. "She's turning fourteen in three weeks."
A tense silence fell between them. Beatrice stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to read past his face, past his calm tone, past the lie he had just told.
Sally stared back, unmoving.
Finally, Beatrice took a step back, her lips tightening again.
"I hope you're telling the truth," she said coldly. "Because if you're not…"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.
She turned and walked out of the room without looking back. The soft thud of her heels echoed down the hallway until the sound disappeared altogether.
Sally exhaled deeply and sat down slowly on the edge of the bed again. He rubbed his temples, the weight of the moment pressing down on his shoulders like iron.
He stared blankly at the wall for a long while before whispering to himself, "I need to be more careful."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. His voice was almost inaudible, but the thoughts rang loud inside him.
"That girl... she's not just Jonathan's daughter. She's yours too, Beatrice. You just don't know it. You threw her away and never looked back. But I found her. I saved her. And now she's finally healing…"
His throat tightened.
"I won't let you ruin her again."
His mind drifted to Zaria's smile, the way she laughed when Dexta told his silly jokes, the way she now walked with quiet confidence—finally starting to believe she mattered.
He remembered the letters. The tiny, trembling handwriting of a broken little girl who had written to her mother over and over again, hoping she would one day come and rescue her.
And yet, the rescue never came.
Beatrice had never replied. Not once. She had left that child to suffer. And now, years later, that same mother stood in the same house—asking questions with a heart that was still hardened by pride and ignorance.
Sally shook his head.
"She doesn't deserve to know," he whispered. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."
---
Down the hallway, Beatrice stood at the sink, pouring a glass of water with trembling fingers. Her mind raced.
Something didn't sit right.
Sally had never cared so much about anyone—not even her relatives. He barely checked on her own family members. And now, suddenly, he was personally mentoring some friend's orphaned daughter?
She took a slow sip of water and stared out the kitchen window.
There had to be more to the story. Something he wasn't saying. Something about that girl.
The image flashed again in her mind—blurry as it was.
A girl. Tall. Slim. Hair tied in a neat ponytail. Always smiling at Dexta.
What was her name? she thought. Why won't he tell me her name?
She clenched the glass tightly.
If Sally thought he could hide something from her, he was wrong. She had already come this far. She would get to the bottom of it—with or without him.
---
Back in the bedroom, Sally stood and walked to the window. The city lights blinked softly in the distance. Somewhere out there, Zaria was asleep, maybe dreaming of better days, of things getting easier.
He prayed she'd never have to carry the weight of the truth—not yet.
Not until she was ready.
Not until he was sure Beatrice wouldn't destroy what they were trying to rebuild.
He turned away from the window and sat quietly on the bed.
But in his heart, he knew—secrets never stayed buried forever.