Seraphina's Point Of View
It had been two weeks since I said yes.
Two weeks since my life quietly cracked open and rearranged itself without asking my permission.
Two weeks since the Chairman looked at me like the decision was already made long before I opened my mouth, and maybe it was. Things had moved fast after that. Too fast for my heart to keep up, too efficient for me to pretend this was just another opportunity.
Approvals were signed. Files transferred. Logistics settled.
Rose's transfer had gone through almost immediately too. When she told me, she'd burst into my apartment like a storm, eyes bright, voice shaking with excitement.
"You're not getting rid of me that easily," she'd said, throwing her arms around my neck.
And I'd laughed, relief flooding my chest so hard it almost hurt.
Now? Now it was real.
I was home.
Packing.
My childhood room didn't look like my room anymore.
It looked like a place that had already started forgetting me.
Boxes sat open on the floor, their cardboard flaps bent and tired. Clothes were folded into piles… work clothes, casual clothes, clothes I hadn't worn in years but still couldn't throw away. Shoes were lined up against the wall like obedient soldiers. My suitcase lay open on the bed, mouth wide, stuffed to the edges, like it was daring anyone to add one more thing.
And hovering over it all like a general overseeing a battlefield…
My mother.
She moved with purpose, with the intensity of a woman who believed something terrible would happen if she stopped for even one second. She folded my clothes tighter than I ever did, pressed them flat with her palms, stacked them with military precision.
"Mom," I said slowly, watching her add another thick sweater to the pile. "I don't need five jackets."
She didn't even glance at me. "You're moving to another city."
"It's not the Arctic."
"Cold doesn't need permission to humble you."
She shoved the sweater into the suitcase.
The zipper groaned.
"Mom," I warned.
"Lift that side."
I sighed, walked over, and lifted the suitcase while she pressed down with her full weight like she was wrestling an enemy.
"This bag is going to burst open in public," I said. "People will see my underwear."
"Then they'll know you're prepared," she said. "Hold still."
The zipper finally closed with a violent zzzzrip.
She straightened, hands on her hips, victorious.
I stared at the bulging suitcase. "That bag hates me."
"It hates weakness," she corrected.
I laughed, shaking my head.
For a brief moment, it felt normal. Like any other packing day. Like I was just going somewhere for a few days and not… leaving.
I thought we were done.
I should've known better.
She vanished into the kitchen.
A minute passed.
Then two.
When she returned, her arms were full… no, overloaded. Containers stacked precariously, plastic bags hooked around her wrists, foil-wrapped bundles radiating heat and familiar smells.
I froze.
"…What is that?"
"Food," she said, like it was obvious.
"For who?"
"For you."
"Why?"
She stopped walking and looked at me like I'd personally offended her ancestors. "Because you're leaving."
"I'm going for work," I said carefully. "Not war."
She scoffed and brushed past me, dumping everything onto the table. "Work is worse. At least in war they expect you not to eat."
I stared at the mountain forming before me. "That's stew."
"Yes."
"And jollof."
"Yes."
"And is that…"
"Snacks."
"For how long?"
She began packing the food into insulated bags, her mouth set in a firm line. "Until you remember to eat like a proper human being."
"I eat!"
"You survive," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"Mom…"
She turned suddenly, finger pointed at me. "I don't want you coming back here all bones."
I blinked. "What?"
"Skin and determination," she continued. "Like those motivational posters. I won't have it."
I burst out laughing, bending over. "That is not going to happen!"
She didn't laugh. "Life enjoys proving people wrong. You think people eat properly when they're busy? You'll forget. You always do."
"Mom…"
"I don't want you looking like you barely escaped malnourishment," she said sharply. "Like one of those sad before-and-after pictures."
I burst out laughing. "That is not going to happen."
"Famous last words."
She shoved a container into my hands. "Label these when you get there. This one is stew. This one is jollof. Don't mix them."
"Why would I mix…"
"And these are for mornings," she said, pushing another bag into my arms. "In case you forget breakfast."
"I won't forget breakfast."
"You forgot yesterday."
"That was…"
"No excuses."
The pile in my arms grew heavier, warmer. Familiar. Home.
"I'm moving," I said softly. "Not being exiled."
She paused.
Really paused.
Her shoulders sagged just a little.
"I know," she said quietly. "But you're going far."
The air shifted.
The jokes thinned. The laughter softened around the edges.
We finished packing after that, slower now. She folded the last shirt with care. I zipped the final bag without argument. The room looked too clean, too empty, like it was already bracing itself for my absence.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
"Come," she said.
I sat beside her.
She took my hands, warm and steady, her thumbs rubbing circles into my skin the way they always had when I was little, when I was scared, or sick, or unsure.
"You're grown," she said. "But listen to me."
I nodded, throat tight.
"Protect yourself," she said. "Not everyone who smiles means well."
"I know."
"Take care of yourself," she continued. "Rest when you're tired. Eat even when you're busy. Don't let work swallow you."
"I'll try," I whispered.
She studied my face, then added, almost reluctantly, "And… have fun."
I blinked. "Fun?"
"Yes," she said firmly. "You've worked too hard to forget how to live."
Something broke open in my chest then.
I hugged her.
She hugged me back just as tightly, arms firm, unyielding. I breathed her in… the scent of soap, spices, familiarity. Home.
When she finally pulled back, her hands still resting on my shoulders, she said softly but firmly,
"Don't forget to call when you get there."
Sunlight filtered through the curtains in thin, pale strips, cutting the room into soft gold and shadow. Dust floated lazily in the air, drifting like it had nowhere important to be. Everything looked normal… too normal, and that somehow made it worse.
My bags were already by the door.
Two suitcases. One carry-on. A handbag perched on top like it belonged there. They stood neatly in a row, silent and patient, like they were eager to leave without me.
I lingered in the hallway, fingers curled loosely at my sides, staring at them longer than necessary.
So this was it.
Years of routine. Years of pain I pretended didn't hurt anymore. Years of betrayal I folded neatly and hid under competence and grace.
Reduced to luggage allowances.
My mom's voice floated in from the kitchen, sharp and familiar, cutting through the quiet.
"Seraphina! Come and eat something before you go and start pretending you're a machine."
A small smile tugged at my lips. She always said that.
"I'm coming," I called back, forcing brightness into my voice, forcing my feet to move.
The kitchen smelled like home.
The moment I stepped in, I froze.
She had cooked.
Of course she had.
Not a simple breakfast. Not toast and tea. No, this was a statement. Eggs fried just right, plantains caramelized at the edges, toast stacked high, tea steaming gently. Everything arranged with the care of someone feeding a whole family instead of one woman catching a flight.
"Mom," I said softly, my voice betraying me already. "This is too much."
She didn't even glance up. "Sit."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be."
"I'll eat at the airport."
She turned then, eyes narrowing. "Airport food is a scam."
I laughed under my breath and sat anyway.
She watched me like a hawk as I lifted my fork, as if the food might escape if she blinked.
"Chew properly," she said.
"I am."
"You're rushing."
"I'm literally sitting still."
She reached across the table and poured more tea into my cup. "Drink."
I did. The warmth slid down my throat, settling heavy in my chest. Something tight wrapped itself around my ribs, squeezing slowly.
"So," she said, tone casual but not fooling anyone. "When do you land?"
"Late evening."
"Call me."
"I will."
"No excuses."
I nodded. "I promise."
She studied me for a moment, then looked down at her cup. The clock ticked loudly on the wall, each second landing like it mattered.
"You packed the food?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Yes, Mom."
"And the snacks?"
"Yes."
"And the extra jacket?"
I sighed, rubbing my forehead. "Yes. Mom… we literally packed them together."
She paused, then huffed. "Still doesn't hurt to confirm."
I smiled despite myself.
The taxi arrived too soon. The horn cut through the morning like a blade, sharp and final. My mom stood immediately. "Let's go before the driver starts judging us."
I grabbed my bags. She followed me outside, locking the door carefully, slowly, like she was saying goodbye to more than just a house. Her hand lingered on the lock, fingers resting there a beat too long.
"You'll come back," she said suddenly.
Not a question. A command.
"I will," I said.
I needed that to be true.
At the taxi, she adjusted my collar, smoothed my hair, pressed her palms against my shoulders like she was committing me to memory.
"You're strong," she said. "Don't forget that."
"I won't."
She hugged me.
Tight. Crushing. Familiar.
I hugged her back, breathing her in—soap, spices, warmth. Home.
"Call me," she whispered again.
"I will."
The door shut.
The taxi pulled away.
I watched her through the window until she was nothing but a figure waving in the distance, standing tall like she wasn't losing anything at all.
For a few seconds, I sat still.
Then the street turned. And something inside me finally snapped. Before the tears came, there was relief.
Sharp. Guilty. Almost painful relief.
I was leaving the pain behind. The hurt. The betrayal. The version of myself that stayed too long, forgave too much, loved until it broke her.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, breathing shakily.
It's over, I told myself.
You survived.
And then, I broke.
My breath hitched violently, chest collapsing inward as sobs tore out of me without permission. Tears spilled fast and hot, blurring the world outside. I covered my mouth with my hand, shoulders shaking as quietly as I could.
God.
How was I supposed to tell her?
How was I supposed to sit across from my mother one day, look into those eyes, and say, ;Mom, I don't have much time left?'
How was she supposed to survive that?
She was my mother. My anchor. My safe place wrapped in stubborn love and burnt pots and food meant to last weeks.
I loved her so much it felt unbearable.
For the first time since the doctor's careful voice. Since the white walls. Since the word limited was spoken like it was mercy… I was scared of dying.
Not of pain.
Of leaving.
Of leaving her.
The city blurred past as the taxi sped on, buildings melting into memories, streets folding themselves into goodbye.
When we reached the airport, the driver stepped out, opened the trunk. I paid, thanked him, stepped onto the pavement.
The noise hit me instantly… rolling suitcases, overlapping announcements, footsteps rushing toward futures that didn't wait.
I stood there for a moment.
Just stood.
Breathing.
Then I lifted my head, squared my shoulders, and walked inside.
"A new life waits for me, and hopefully I won't die before I start to live it."