I was carrying the Christmas cake when I overheard my mother say, “Don’t bother asking her. Let your sister have the apartment for free.”
I didn’t respond to any of them.
Instead, I did something I should have done years ago.
I went to see a therapist.
Her name was Dr. Boma Eze, and she had an office in D-Line, Port Harcourt. She was warm, patient, and direct in a way that reminded me of my grandmother, who had died when I was sixteen.
I told her everything.
The years of sacrifice. The constant pressure to be the “responsible one.” The way my parents had trained me to believe that my worth was tied to what I could provide for others.
And the moment I heard them decide my future without me.
Dr. Eze listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked one question.
“Ada, what do you want?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
Then I closed it.
I didn’t know.
