Ngozi stared at the phone screen, her heart giving a single, hard thud against her ribs. She reached for the device, read the elaborate digital invitation, then slowly placed it back down on the table without a word.
Amaka was practically vibrating with fury. “What kind of fresh insult is this? Is the man completely mad?” But Ngozi just stood quietly, holding her clean, sweet-smelling baby close to her chest. Then, a calm, steady smile touched her lips.
“It’s okay,” she said softly, her voice even. “Let him have his wedding. Let him have his moment.”
Amaka frowned deeply. “You are not actually thinking of going, are you?”
Ngozi looked over at her three sons, all now sleeping peacefully on a soft rug in the living room. She didn’t offer a verbal answer. But the way she walked to her bedroom, her back straight and her head held high with a quiet, unshakeable confidence, communicated her decision more clearly than any words ever could.
Ngozi stood by the large window in her bedroom, one hand gently rocking the baby sleeping in her arms while the other held the thick, heavy wedding invitation. The envelope was a gaudy, metallic gold, thick and shiny like something meant for royalty. The embossed letters were bold and loud, announcing: Chaik and Adaeze – The Royal Union. She had read the contents five times already. Each time, the message was the same: the date, the lavish venue, the strict dress code, and then, printed with deliberate clarity, her own name listed under ‘Special Guests’ with a specific note: Ngozi Eze – Front Row Seat.
She lowered her eyes and took a long, deep, calming breath. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking with anger or anxiety. But something powerful was rising within her, a slow-burning fire that was warming the cold, forgotten stones of her past.
Amaka walked into the room, carrying a small bowl of hot pap for the baby. “I still cannot understand why he would do this. Send you this… this thing. Is he genuinely crazy? Or is he just inherently wicked?”
Ngozi remained silent, her gaze fixed on the sleeping child in her arms.
Amaka placed the bowl down on a side table with a soft thud. “Is he trying to humiliate you all over again, after everything he put you through?” Still, Ngozi said nothing. Amaka’s patience finally snapped. “Ngozi, talk to me! Why are you being so calm about this? You should have torn that vile invitation into a thousand pieces and thrown it in the dustbin where it belongs!”
Ngozi finally spoke, her voice low and measured. “He wants me to feel small. He wants me to sit in that front row and feel my own insignificance.”
“Then we will simply ignore him!” Amaka declared, folding her arms resolutely. “We will not give him the satisfaction!”
Ngozi turned slowly to face her friend. “He wants me to come, and to weep in a corner while his new bride glides down the aisle, draped in gold, with a triumphant smile on her face.”
“And we will not go!” Amaka repeated, her voice rising.
Ngozi’s eyes drifted to her three sons, who were now sleeping soundly on a colorful rug, their matching yellow onesies slightly wrinkled from an afternoon of play. “But what if,” she said, her voice firming with conviction, “we show him the truth instead?”
Amaka’s brow furrowed. “What truth?”
Ngozi’s voice was steady and clear. “The truth that I was never the problem. The truth that the woman he labeled as broken and barren is now whole, and blessed, and living a life of peace.”
Amaka was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. Then she slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. “Wait. Are you actually planning to go to that wedding?”
Ngozi gave a single, definitive nod.
“With the boys?” Amaka asked, her eyes widening.
Another nod.
Amaka opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then, a slow, incredulous laugh escaped her. “Iwu! That man will faint dead on the spot. Ngozi, are you truly, completely serious about this?”
Ngozi smiled for the first time since the invitation had arrived. It was a serene, powerful smile. “I am very serious.”…
I like that