Nneka woke up early the next morning, but it wasn't because she slept well.
She slept with one ear awake, one eye half-open, and her heart beating like someone knocking from inside her chest.
She had reached a point where emotional danger felt louder than physical noise.
When she sat up, she felt that same calm determination settle over her again — the new calm that didn't come from peace, but from clarity.
She wasn't healed.
She wasn't okay.
She wasn't done hurting.
But she was done breaking.
She tied her scarf, washed her face, and stepped out of the room.
Olu was in the living room, pretending to scroll his phone, though his eyes flickered toward her every two seconds.
He had barely slept either.
He watched her silently as she picked up her bag.
"You're going?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You didn't even ask me if I needed anything."
She paused.
Then she turned slowly and said:
"Olu, for years I gave you everything — attention, peace, respect, support. You didn't see it."
He swallowed hard.
"What does that mean?" he asked quietly.
"It means you lost the right to demand from me what you refused to give."
And she walked out.
Leaving him speechless again.
⸻
The Market That Felt Different
When she reached her shop, she breathed deeply.
The market noise felt strangely comforting — people calling out prices, children running around laughing, the smell of fried akara drifting through the air.
For the first time in a long time…
she felt part of life again.
She arranged her goods slowly, smiling at a few familiar faces.
Then Mama Chiamaka — the wise older woman — approached her.
"My daughter," she said, "your face is changing."
"Is it a bad thing?" Nneka asked softly.
"No," Mama replied. "It is the face of a woman who has stopped begging for love and started building herself."
Nneka swallowed hard.
"Does real healing come?" she whispered.
Mama smiled gently.
"Yes. But healing comes after you close the door that keeps hurting you."
Nneka didn't respond.
But those words stayed inside her.
⸻
The Rumor Confirmed
Later that afternoon, the bar woman — the one who had warned her before — walked into the shop again.
This time, she looked worried.
"Nneka… my dear, I'm so sorry," she said softly.
Nneka felt her stomach flip.
"Sorry for what?"
The woman sat down.
"I didn't want to tell you unless I was sure. But today… I heard it clearly. I saw it clearly."
Nneka's heart raced.
"Saw what?" she whispered.
The woman sighed deeply.
"Olu's new girlfriend… the very young one… she told her friend she's two months pregnant."
The world tilted.
Nneka grabbed the table for balance.
"For who?" she whispered, even though she already knew the answer.
"For your husband," the woman said sadly.
Nneka stared at her with wide, cold eyes.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.
"Yes," the woman replied. "I watched her talk. I heard her mention his name."
Tears stung Nneka's eyes.
A deep, stabbing pain ripped through her chest.
Pregnant.
Two months pregnant.
Carrying a child for the man she built a life with.
The man she cried for.
The man she almost lost her mind over.
The man she sacrificed everything to build.
Her breath trembled.
Her hands trembled.
Her soul trembled.
But she didn't collapse.
She didn't scream.
She didn't faint.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and whispered:
"Thank you for telling me."
The woman squeezed her hand.
"Be strong, my daughter."
Then she left.
⸻
The Tears That Finally Stopped
Nneka sat alone in her shop after the woman left.
She didn't move.
She didn't blink.
She didn't breathe for a second.
She felt the kind of pain that didn't produce tears — the kind that froze tears in your throat.
She whispered to herself:
"So it's true."
The truth wasn't a rumor anymore.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't imagination.
It was reality.
He had given another woman what he denied her.
He had built another family behind her back.
He had destroyed everything they built together.
But strangely…
No tears fell.
For the first time, the pain didn't drown her.
It sharpened her.
It woke her.
It turned something cold inside her heart into steel.
She stood up slowly.
Wiped her face even though it wasn't wet.
And whispered:
"This marriage is over."
The words weren't loud.
They weren't emotional.
But they were final.
⸻
The Storm at Home
When she got home, Olu was sitting on the sofa again.
He looked up quickly, studying her face.
"Where did you go?"
"Work," she said quietly.
"You didn't tell me when you closed."
"I don't need to."
His eyes narrowed.
"Are you trying to make me angry?"
"No," she said. "I'm trying to free myself."
He frowned deeply.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Nneka walked past him calmly and placed her bag on the table.
Then she turned to face him.
"There's something I know," she said.
Olu stiffened.
"What do you mean?"
"I know about the girl," she said softly.
He blinked rapidly.
"What girl?"
"The one that's two months pregnant."
It was as if the air was dragged out of the room.
Olu froze completely.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
"Nneka… who told you that?"
She didn't answer.
She just looked at him with eyes that had stopped loving him.
He stuttered:
"Nneka… let me explain—"
"No," she whispered.
"There's nothing left to explain."
Olu stood up suddenly, panicked.
"Believe me, it's not what you think—"
"It is exactly what I think," she said calmly. "And more."
He tried to hold her hand.
She pulled her hand away.
"Olu," she whispered. "I'm done bleeding for someone who doesn't care if I die."
He stepped back slowly, like the ground under him was breaking.
"Nneka… don't say that," he whispered. "Don't say you're done."
She inhaled slowly, deeply.
And with the strength of a woman who had reached the end of her suffering, she said:
"I am leaving this marriage."
Olu's knees nearly gave out.
He grabbed the table for balance.
"Nneka, please—"
But she shook her head.
"This is not punishment," she said softly.
"It is survival."
Olu stared at her — broken, shocked, trembling.
Because he finally understood:
This wasn't anger.
This wasn't emotion.
This was ending.
The real ending.
And nothing he said could stop her anymore.
End of Chapter 18