Mrs. Chidubemhasto love Chioma and Chidinma. She birthed them. I’m just the girl from the “television” who didn't know how to act around her specialty dish. The stakes for me feel a hell of a lot higher than they do for her daughters.
I excuse myself to find Luca, my heels clicking softly against the hardwood of the upstairs hallway. As I approach the landing,I hear voices—hushed, rapid-fire Igbo mixed with sharp English. I freeze.
Luca and his mother are standing near the top of the stairs.
“You brought her into this house unprepared, Uzoma,” she whispers, though the bite in her tone carries perfectly. “She does not know the customs. She does not know how we do things. Then I keep seeing you and her all over the television. You make us look like people who have forgotten ourselves.”
Luca is quiet at first, his head bowed slightly. My heart sinks. The silence feels like a surrender, and for a second, I’m that woman he left broken-hearted all over again, watching a man shrink under the pressure of real life. Of our reality.
I hear a deep voice step up from behind me. “Just let them have it out. It’s good for them,” the voice says, and I turn to see someone tall, dark, with an uncanny resemblance to Luca.
He holds out his hand, his rich Nigerian accent booming. “Abraham Chidubem. Luca’s father,” he says, before bowing his head to kiss my hand. Guess that runs in the family, too.
“Aspen. Luca’s—”
“His wife, I hear.”
“Yes, sir.”
He steps back. “Let me look at you. Beautiful. You are a queen. With a gele to match,” he says, and I decide to do the bow that I practiced for him.
“Thank you.”
We both turn our heads, hearing the hushed voices rise.
Then, Luca straightens. He doesn't just move. He towers.
“Mummy, enough,” he says, his voice hushed but clipped. “Part of us moving to London, and then to America, was the necessity of learning new ways. That is the beauty of the life you gave us—the freedom to explore and discover ourselves in our surroundings.”
“It was about exposure, Uzoma,” she counters sharply. “Not submersion.”
“You don’t get to decide how a person responds when you introduce them to a new environment,” he snaps back, his tone hardening. “Why would you insist on ruining this for Aspen? Why would you let your son’s wife believe she is unworthy of the chance to learn who we are?”
His mother starts to interject, but he holds up a hand, silencing her.
“Aspen is my wife. I am sorry for the ‘spectacle’ of our marriage, but you will just have to accept it. All of it.” He pauses, a glint of mischief suddenly cutting through the tension. “Especially if you want the Rolls Royce I bought for your birthday.”
My mother-in-law’s entire demeanor shifts in a heartbeat. “Uzo! A Rolls Royce? Just like Beyonce and Jay-Z’s?” she squeals, her regal composure dissolving into pure excitement.
“Not quite. But it’s still nice.”
Luca pulls a set of keys from his pocket, dangling them just out of reach. “It’s parked right out front. Silver Shadow. Just like you wanted.”
She reaches for the keys, but he pulls them back for one more second, his expression turning deathly serious.
“But understand this, Mummy,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “My devotion to Aspen...it isn’t for the cameras. It isn't for the press. It is real. She’s my queen. She has my heart. Treat her as such, or the car goes away, along with me.”
She nods quickly, too enamored by the keys to argue, and scampers toward the stairs like a schoolgirl. Luca exhales a long, heavy breath, turning toward the hallway. When his eyes meet mine, the hardness vanishes, replaced by a warmth so fierce it leaves me breathless.
He doesn't have to ask if I heard. He just opens his arms, and I realize I’m not the rope in a tug-of-war. I’m the prize he’s already won.
We all stream out of the house behind her, following the sound of her laughter into the cool evening air. The driveway lights are on, and honestly, the car sitting there looks less like a vehicle and more like a piece of art. Luca really outdid himself. It’s a Rolls Royce Wraith, and even if you don’t know a thing about cars, you can tell this one is special.
The two-tone paint is what catches your eye first. A crisp, bright white on the bottom with a deep, liquid black running along the hood and roof that makes the whole thing look incredibly sleek. It’s just like Luca—polished and expensive, but with a definite edge that keeps you on your toes.
His mother approaches it like she’s walking toward a miracle, her hand pressed to her mouth to still her trembling lips. When she finally touches the cool white door handle, she looks back at us, her eyes beaming with an unadulterated excitement that makes the whole family smile.
“Gramma! Can we go for a ride? Now? Can you take us, Gramma?!” The grandchildren are already swarming, their high-pitched requests echoing across the driveway. Luca is practically glowing, watching her. His mother turns from the children, her expression softening only when her gaze lands on her son. It bypasses me entirely, and I brace myself for another “cold” interaction.
