The silence in the living room after Mina left was a physical presence, thick and suffocating. Adams stood frozen, the echo of her ultimatum ringing in his ears, each word a shard of ice in his heart. Leave. This. House. He could feel his mother's triumphant gaze on his back, already claiming victory.
Hajiya Zainab let out a soft, dismissive sigh, the rustle of her newspaper a sound of pure condescension. "A dramatic performance, but ultimately pointless. She will be back when she realizes the impracticality of her foolishness. A woman with a child does not long survive on pride alone."
Her words, meant to soothe and reclaim him, were the spark that lit the fuse.
Something in Adams snapped.
It wasn't a loud break. It was a quiet, internal severing of a chain he hadn't even known was holding him captive. He turned slowly to face his mother. The raw panic in his eyes was gone, replaced by a terrifying, glacial calm.
"No, Mother," he said, his voice low but clear, cutting through the room's opulent stillness. "She won't be back."
Hajiya Zainab lowered her paper fully now, her eyes narrowing at his tone. "Do not be melodramatic, Adams. She has made her little scene. Now, we move on. This changes nothing."
"You're wrong," he said, taking a step toward her. "It changes everything."
He looked around the room—at the expensive art, the polished floors, the perfect, cold order of it all. He saw it not as a sanctuary, but as the world's most beautiful prison. And he saw his mother not as its benevolent warden, but as its chief jailer.
"For months, I have been dying in this house," he stated, the truth of the words solidifying as he spoke them. "I let my shame and my fear lock me in here. I let you convince me that this… this gilded cage was all I had left. That I should be grateful for it."
His mother's face tightened. "I have done nothing but support you when your own wife would not."
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "Support? You called my wife arrogant for being quiet. You called her ungrateful for wanting to hold her own child. You left a piece of a broken vase on a table to torture her. That is not support, Mother. That is a slow, calculated execution. And I… I was your willing assistant."
He ran a hand over his face, the weight of his complicity crushing him. "I was so afraid of being a failure in the world that I became a monster in my own home. And you… you cheered me on."
Hajiya Zainab stood up, her regal composure finally cracking. "How dare you speak to me this way! After all I have done for you! I have protected this family's dignity—"
"You protected your ego!" he fired back, his voice rising for the first time, not in hysteria, but in conviction. "Your dignity was more important than my marriage! Your control was more important than my happiness! Well, you win. You have your dignity. You have your control. And you have this empty, perfect house."
He turned and walked toward the staircase, his movements decisive for the first time in a year.
"Where are you going?" his mother demanded, her voice sharp with a dawning, real fear.
"To pack," he called over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. "My wife gave me a choice. And I'm making it."
He took the stairs two at a time, the fire of purpose burning away the last of his weakness. In his room, he ignored the walk-in closet full of tailored suits and expensive shoes. He went to the back and found an old, dusty duffel bag. He began to pack. Not the trappings of Adams the CEO, but the essentials of a man starting over. Simple clothes. A few personal items. The worn copy of Things Fall Apart Mina had given him.
Aisha appeared in the doorway, her face pale. "Adams, what are you doing? You can't actually be leaving? Because of her ultimatum? She's manipulating you!"
He zipped the bag shut and faced his sister. "For the first time since I got out of the hospital, someone is telling me the truth. She's not manipulating me, Aisha. She's throwing me a lifeline. And I'm finally smart enough to take it."
He pushed past her and went to the nursery. Binta was there, holding a confused Trisha.
"Give her to me," Adams said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
The nanny, startled, handed over the child. Adams held his daughter close, breathing in her scent. This was what it was all for.
He carried Trisha downstairs, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His father, Alhaji Ibrahim, was now in the living room, having been summoned by the raised voices. He looked old and tired.
"Adams," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Do not make a rash decision you will regret."
"I've already spent a year making decisions I regret, Baba," Adams replied, meeting his father's gaze. "This is the first one that feels right."
He looked at his mother one last time. She stood rigid, her face a mask of cold, furious betrayal.
"If you walk out that door," she said, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage, "you are no longer my son. You will get nothing more from this family. Nothing. You will be on your own."
It was the final, desperate weapon in her arsenal: disinheritance. Total exile.
Adams held her gaze, and for the first time, he was not afraid. He felt a profound, liberating pity for her.
"Then I guess I'll have to make my own way," he said quietly. "Goodbye, Mother."
He turned, his daughter in his arms, his bag on his shoulder, and walked out of the mansion. He didn't look back.
The outside air had never smelled so clean. He didn't have a plan. He had a few thousand naira in his wallet and no place to go. But he had his daughter, and he had a purpose.
He found a modest, cheap hotel a few miles away. The room was small and shabby, a universe away from the opulence he'd left behind. He laid Trisha down on the bed, and she gurgled, looking around the unfamiliar room.
Adams sat on the edge of the bed, his heart hammering. Not with fear, but with a terrifying, exhilarating sense of freedom. He was terrified. He was broke. He was alone.
But he was his own man.
He pulled out his phone. His hand shook only slightly. He typed a message, not to Mina, but to the only person he could think of.
Adams: Lara. It's Adams. I've left. I'm at the Crystal Lodge on Airport Road. I have Trisha. I have no right to ask, but I need your help. Not for me. For her.
He pressed send. The message was delivered. He stared at the screen, waiting, the fate of his fragile new beginning resting on the mercy of the woman who despised him most.