Adira
Five Years Ago…
Wrocław, Poland.
My husband and I were in the upstairs sitting room — the larger one with the vintage curtains and soft lighting that always smelled faintly of lavender. We were halfway through a Spanish movie adapted from Wattpad — Mala Influencia.
I lay beside him on the couch, my head resting against his chest, my arms locked around him possessively, like a woman terrified of losing her peace.
The moment Reese missed a leg during her ballet practice, I gasped sharply. "Oh no!"
"It's just a movie, sweetheart," my husband murmured, running a hand over my hair. "Besides, Eros is always with her."
"Yes… he is," I mumbled, clinging to him a little tighter.
Then, out of nowhere, a thought drifted in — bittersweet and uninvited. "How I wish Sharon could find love the way Reese just did."
He stayed quiet for a few seconds before saying, "I think she already has, babe."
My body shifted upright in surprise. "What? Sharon? Our Sharon? She doesn't date. She hates commitments. When did that happen — and where did you even hear it?"
He simply adjusted his glasses and said, "You'll find out soon."
Soon? That man loves mysteries.
"So… who's the lucky guy?" I pressed, curiosity prickling at my voice.
He just shrugged, lips curving in a secretive smile. "No idea. Maybe it's meant to be a surprise."
A surprise? Oh, he's definitely helping her hide something. But Sharon and I talk every day. She would've told me. And if she hadn't, the internet surely would have — nothing about that girl escapes the tabloids.
Then the door swung open, and the last person I expected stepped in.
Sebastian.
My son. My storm.
It had been ages since we last saw him in person. Between his business trips, secret meetings, and the dangerous shadows of his underground world — my boy had become a ghost.
I'd begged him to quit that mafia organization, but he never listened. Every day, my heart stayed on edge, terrified I'd get that call — the one every mother dreads.
And now, here he was… looking like he'd just escaped an ambush.
His white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was splattered with reddish stains I didn't need a lab test to identify. His black trousers were ruffled, and his once neat hair had fallen loose over his shoulders, the tie holding it gone. A cut marked his lower lip, and a dark bruise shadowed his chin.
"Oh my God, Sebastian!" I bolted off the couch and rushed to him. Dayo — my husband — sat up instantly, concern all over his face. "Kini o ṣẹlẹ si ọ? Kini idi ti o n wa idotin? (What happened to you? Why do you look like this?)"
Sebastian frowned. "Good evening too, Mommy. Can we stick to Polish or English? I still don't understand Yoruba." His eyes flicked toward Dayo. "Good evening, Daddy."
"Did you kill someone, Sebastian?"
He groaned. "Geez, Mommy, calm down." He rolled his eyes, and I nearly snapped. That attitude — I'd warned him about it a thousand times.
"Sebastian, dlaczego tak wyglądasz? (Why do you look like this?)" Dayo asked in calm Polish, the only language Sebastian respected.
Sebastian sighed. "I was at a construction site today. Some paint splashed on me."
Lies.
That boy couldn't fool me even if he came with a Bible. I knew that look — he'd just come from blood, not paint.
"Will that explain the bruises on your face too?" I narrowed my eyes.
He muttered something under his breath and turned away, heading for the shelf beside the TV.
"What are you looking for?" I followed, arms crossed.
"A file I hid here last year." His voice was curt, focused.
I exhaled in frustration and glanced at Dayo — my human translator and peacekeeper. He got the message.
"Sebastian," Dayo began softly, moving toward him. They exchanged quiet words in Polish — I couldn't catch it, but I saw Sebastian nod. That was enough. Dayo always knew how to handle him.
Sebastian disappeared into his room, returning ten minutes later, fresh from the shower — clean-shaven, hair now braided into three neat cornrows, wearing a grey two-piece denim set. Handsome again, but distant as ever.
The file was still in his hand.
"Mom, Dad," he said, tone brisk, "I have something important in Czech Republic. I'll call you tomorrow morning."
He was already heading for the door when I blurted, "Sebastian, when are you getting married?"
He froze mid-step. Dayo's arm wrapped around my shoulders — the silent "easy now, babe" gesture he's mastered after all these years.
Sebastian turned slowly, exhaling like a man cornered. "Mom," he began, voice tight, "this is exactly why I don't visit often."
"I don't care!" The words flew before I could stop them. "You'll be thirty soon, Sebastian! When will you grow up? All you do is chase danger, bury yourself in missions, and surround yourself with women who can't even spell loyalty. Do you want me to die worrying about you?"
Dayo's grip on me tightened — a gentle warning. I forced a breath to steady my voice.
Sebastian didn't respond. He just pressed his lips into a hard line and walked out.
"Go ahead! That's what you're good at — running away from the truth!" I yelled after him, but the door had already shut.
Dayo rubbed my shoulders softly. "Babe… taking it out on them won't help. When the time is right, they'll figure it out."
"For how long, Felix?" I turned to him, voice breaking. "For someone like Sebastian, I doubt that time will ever come."
He exhaled deeply, fingers combing gently through my hair. "He'll get there. Just give him space."
Space. Hope. Patience.
The same sermon I've heard a thousand times.
Still, for the sake of peace, I nodded and pretended to believe him.