Beatrice sat by the window, her coffee growing cold in her hands as she stared out at the cloudy Kampala skyline. A storm was brewing — not just in the sky, but inside her chest.
Her husband, Sally Raymond, had changed.
He had grown distant. Distracted. Always glued to his phone. He smiled less, talked less, and whenever she entered the room, he would quickly put his phone away like a guilty schoolboy. At first, she brushed it off. Business stress, maybe. Long hours, a packed schedule. But now, the unease had taken root and grown into something else entirely — suspicion.
He's hiding something… or someone.
He was never this quiet, never this detached. She knew men, and she knew when one had drifted.
One name kept appearing again and again — Angela.
Beatrice had overheard the name more than once, always whispered in low tones. Sometimes it came with words like, "Thank you for taking care of her," or "I'll send the money soon." The vagueness irritated her. The name scratched at the back of her mind like an itch she couldn't reach.
Nurse Angela.
Beatrice wasn't a fool. She had seen that name saved in Sally's phone. Nurse Angela. He always had an excuse when she asked who Angela was — just someone helping at the clinic, or a nurse who helped with hotel health checks.
But something didn't sit right. Why was he calling her every day? Why did he sound so… tender?
That evening, as Sally stepped out to take another call, Beatrice stood just beyond the curtain, holding her breath.
"Yes, Angela. Thank you for checking on her again today… I really appreciate your time. She needs that warmth around her."
Her?
Who is "her"?!
Beatrice clenched her fists. The tone in his voice—gentle, personal—wasn't professional. It wasn't casual. There was a softness she hadn't heard in a long time. It stung.
How long has this been going on? she thought bitterly. Is she young? Pretty? Is that where his attention is now?
For a moment, her heart twisted in something worse than jealousy—doubt. Was she losing her husband? Was Angela… the other woman?
She couldn't ask. Not yet. Beatrice was many things, but impulsive wasn't one of them. If Sally was hiding something, she would find out herself.
---
Meanwhile, far from the whispers and secrets of home, Zaria was thriving in her new school.
Though the tall fences and unfamiliar faces had frightened her at first, the boarding school had become a place of safety. Structure. Hope. For once in her life, she was surrounded by more than just pain.
Zaria had quickly become one of the brightest pupils in her class. She sat quietly in the front row, always with her hand raised, always eager to learn. Her teachers admired her focus and depth of thought.
"She's got an old soul," said Mr. Isaac , the Chemistry teacher. "This one has seen life—but look at her now."
And indeed, Zaria was slowly beginning to heal—not just physically, but emotionally. The days of hunger, beatings, and hopelessness at Sarah's house felt distant now, like a bad dream she didn't want to revisit. She had been rescued. Not by a fairy godmother, but by a man named Sally, who had shown her the love her own mother never did.
Though her classmates didn't know the full story, they respected her. She wasn't loud or boastful, but her kindness spoke volumes.
Her best friend at school, Charity, adored her.
"You're too smart, it's unfair," Charity joked as they walked back from prep. "Are you even real?"
Zaria smiled. "I just like books. They don't shout or hit you."
Charity laughed, nudging her playfully. "You're weird, but I like it."
At night, when the lights went out in the dormitory, Zaria would lie quietly under her blanket and think of Linda—her old friend, the one who had once whispered courage into her ears and promised she deserved better.
She still wrote letters in her small brown notebook:
"Dear Linda,
Life is different now. I sleep in a real bed. I have food.
I don't cry every day anymore, but sometimes the memories try to come back.
I miss you.
Love,
Zaria."
She didn't know when she would see Linda again, but she held onto the dream that one day, they would meet and laugh like they used to—before the world became cruel.
---
Back at the hotel apartment, Beatrice had begun her quiet investigation.
She didn't confront Sally—not yet. But she started watching him more closely. When he left the room, she checked his phone logs. Always "Angela."
She even Googled the name and tried searching for nurses in the area. There were too many, and nothing came up. Whoever this Angela was, she wasn't easy to find. And Sally had clearly gone to lengths to keep it that way.
Beatrice started connecting dots in her head—imaginary or not. The money transfers, the long calls, the tone in his voice… Was he taking care of another woman? Or… a child?
Her chest tightened at the thought. If it was a child, whose was it?
No. She shook her head. Sally wouldn't betray her that way. Or would he?
Doubt crept in like poison.
She remembered Carol once trying to bring up something weeks ago—about a girl, a child. Beatrice had shut the conversation down before it could go far. She didn't want to hear about that child—the mistake she had erased from her life long ago.
And now, the name Zaria began ringing louder and louder in her memory.
But Beatrice shook it off. It couldn't be her.
Still… she would find out who Angela really was. Quietly. Carefully. She had the time, and she had the mind for it.
---
That night, Sally sat quietly in the sitting room after another call with Nurse Angela. He stared at a photo Zaria had drawn for him—a simple crayon sketch of a tree with the words: "Thank you for giving me a new life."
He smiled, tucking it gently into his drawer.
He didn't know Beatrice had seen it once—and remembered the name "Zaria."
But the storm hadn't come yet.
Beatrice was waiting in silence, gathering clues, building her case.
The truth was near—but it wasn't time yet.
And when it did come… it would shake everything.