“You think you can come back here after ten years and take my house?!” she screamed. “You? The dog girl?!”
Adai stepped closer, calm as still water.
“I didn’t come back to argue,” she said softly. “I came to give you the same kindness you gave me.”
She turned to the bailiff.
“Please show her out. She has thirty minutes to pack her clothes. Nothing else.”
As Ifeoma was dragged away kicking and screaming, Adai walked into the house she had been locked out of for ten years.
She stopped at the entrance of the living room.
Then she did something she had dreamed about every single cold night in that kennel.
She sat on the sofa — the one Ifeoma had forbidden her from touching.
Ease, now old and gray, followed her inside. The big German Shepherd lay at her feet like he had done so many nights before.
Adai gently placed her hand on his head.
“We’re home now,” she whispered.
For the first time in ten years, tears fell from her eyes.
But this time, they were not tears of pain.
They were tears of victory.
And somewhere in the quiet, she could almost hear her mother’s voice saying:
“I told you I would protect you.”
Leave a Comment