Page 91 of Scars and Crowns

The moment we step inside, I drift away from him almost instinctively. Not because I want distance. Because suddenly I need something steady. Something simple.

I need Sara. The familiar weight of her little arms around my neck. The certainty that no matter what else changes, she is still mine. I push open the bedroom door already picturing what I'll find. Sara asleep against Amma Saheba. Still pale. Still curled up with one hand over her stomach.

Instead . . . She's sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Wide awake. Laughing so hard she nearly drops one of the biscuits balanced in her lap while Amma Saheba shows her something on her phone.

The half-empty plate beside her tells me she's been eating quite happily too. I stop in the doorway. Everything inside me stills. Not from relief. From confusion. Then, slowly . . . Something sharper.

"Sara." My voice sounds oddly calm. Too calm. She looks up immediately. Her smile appears a fraction too quickly. "You're feeling better."

"I am!" she says brightly. "Much better." I don't answer. I simply walk toward her. Slowly. Watching. She isn't holding her stomach anymore. She isn't curled over. She's sitting perfectly comfortably.

"You seem completely fine." The words leave my mouth before I realise how flat they sound. "An hour ago you could barely sit up."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Amma Saheba rising to her feet. "I should just . . . check whether the tea is ready." She doesn't wait for a reply. She slips quietly out of the room.

The door closes behind her. My eyes follow it for one thoughtful second. When I look back at Sara, something settles inside me. Amma Saheba knew. Maybe not everything. But enough. I lower myself onto the carpet until we're sitting at the same height. "Sara." She won't meet my eyes. "Look at me, sweetheart."

Slowly . . . She does. "Were you really sick?" Her little mouth trembles. Her eyes fill so quickly with tears it makes my own heart stumble. For a moment I don't know whether she's frightened . . . or ashamed.

"I wanted you and Mister to go together." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I know I lied." The last word breaks apart halfway through. "I'm sorry, Mumma."

My frustration softens before I can stop it. Not completely. But enough. I reach out and smooth a strand of hair away from her face. "Why?" I ask gently. "You could have just told me you wanted us to go."

She shakes her head hard. "No."

"Why not?" Another tear escapes. She wipes it away with the heel of her tiny hand. "Because . . . " Her chin wobbles. "I want a papa."

The room goes completely silent. "I really like Mister." Every word tumbles out faster than the last. "He's kind to me." She adds. "He brings me flowers." Counting on her fingers. "He makes you laugh." "He makes sure you eat."

"He takes care of you."

"And . . . "

She sniffs loudly. "I want someone to take care of you." My throat closes. "I see you when you think I don't." Her little voice grows smaller. "You're always tired."

"You smile . . . but sometimes your smile looks different.” A pause. ”And you always say you're fine." She shakes her head. "But you're not always fine. I know."

"I'm not little-little." She steps closer. "I can tell."

Every sentence lands somewhere deep inside me. My daughter. My five-year-old little girl. She's been watching me this closely. Noticing every exhausted smile. Every quiet lie. Every time I swallowed my own feelings before anyone else could see them. I pull her into my arms before she can say another word. She comes willingly, burying her face against my shoulder. I hold her so tightly my arms almost ache. Her little body trembles once. Then again. She's been carrying this too. All by herself.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into my neck.

"I just wanted you to have one nice evening. I didn't want you worrying about me."

Fresh tears sting behind my own eyes. Oh, my sweet girl. "You never have to earn my happiness." My voice comes out thick. I kiss the top of her head. "Do you hear me?" She nods weakly. "It isn't your job. It never was."

"I am the one who looks after you." I caress her hair. "You don't have to look after me."

"I know." Her words are muffled against my shoulder. "But I wanted to help." She hugs me tighter. "And . . . A tiny pause. “ . . . you both looked happy when you came back."

I smile through tears. "You did." She pulls back just enough to look at me. "Your eyes were doing the sparkly thing."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It comes out watery and broken. "What sparkly thing?"

"The happy one." She smiles uncertainly. "The one Mister gets too."

I close my eyes for one long moment. When I was little . . . I knew exactly what it felt like to grow up without a father. I remember watching other children run toward someone waiting for them at school. I remember pretending it didn't matter. Pretending I wasn't curious about what that kind of love felt like. Pretending I wasn't missing something I'd never actually had.