THE THINGS THEY SAID ABOUT HER Chapter 1

By six every morning, Doris was already tired. Not sleepy. Tired. There was a difference. Sleep could be fixed with sleep. The kind of tiredness Doris carried had settled somewhere deeper, beneath her ribs, behind her eyes, in the small space between one bill and the next. She was thirty-eight and a widow. Her husband had been dead for four years. Four years was long enough for people to stop asking how she was coping. It was also long enough for everyone to assume she had figured things out. She hadn't. She had two children, Daniel and Mimi, eleven and seven, respectively. There were school fees, uniforms that somehow became too small every few months, transport, food, electricity, rent, and the endless little expenses children produced without understanding that money had to come from somewhere. Then there was her mother. Mama had started forgetting things slowly. At first, Doris found it almost funny. Mama would put her glasses somewhere and accuse everyone of stealing them, only to find them sitting on her own head. Then she forgot names. Then dates. Then whether she had eaten. Then she began wandering. The first time Doris found her outside at two in the morning, barefoot and confused, she nearly collapsed from fear. “Mama, what are you doing here?” Mama stared at her. “I was going home.” “This is home.” Mama frowned. “No. I live with my mother.” Doris's throat tightened. “Your mother has been dead for thirty years.” The fear that crossed Mama's face made Doris regret the words immediately. “Come inside,” she whispered. That became their life. Every day, Doris tried to hold everything together. She worked during the day, rushed home in the evening, cooked, helped with homework, washed clothes, checked on her mother, and tried to find enough energy to do it all again the next day. Sometimes she woke at three in the morning to find Mama standing in the kitchen. Sometimes Mama accused her of stealing money. Sometimes she called Doris by her sister's name. And sometimes, for ten precious minutes, Mama was perfectly lucid. Those ten minutes were often the hardest. Because Doris could see the woman her mother used to be. And then, just as quickly, she would disappear again. The breaking point came on a Tuesday. Doris returned from work to find the front door open. Her heart stopped. “Mama?” Nothing. She searched the house. The bedroom was empty. The bathroom was empty. The kitchen was empty. She ran outside. A neighbour found Mama three streets away, sitting beside a drainage ditch. She had no shoes. Doris stood in front of her, trembling so badly that she could barely speak. “Mama, why did you leave the house?” Mama looked up at her. “I was looking for you.” “I was at work.” “You left me.” The words cut deeper than they should have. “I didn't leave you.” Mama frowned. “You always leave.” Doris turned away quickly. She didn't want her mother to see her cry. That night, after the children were asleep, Doris sat on the kitchen floor with unpaid bills scattered around her. She calculated her salary. Then calculated it again. She removed school fees. Food. Rent. Electricity. Transport. Medication. There was still nothing left. There wasn't enough. There simply wasn't enough. The next morning, she called a care facility. She hated herself while she was making the call. She hated herself even more when the woman on the other end told her the cost. But before they ended the conversation, the woman said something Doris couldn't forget. “You can't provide care you cannot afford.” Doris sat quietly after the call ended. Then she cried. Not loudly. She didn't have the luxury of falling apart. After a few minutes, she wiped her face, got dressed, and went to work. Two weeks later, she took Mama to the home. She told the children their grandmother was going somewhere where people could watch her properly. Daniel didn't understand. “Why can't she stay with us?” Doris looked at him. “Because she needs more help than I can give her.” Mimi's face crumpled. “Is Grandma sick?” Doris swallowed. “Yes.” “Will she come back?” Doris looked at her daughter. For a moment, she couldn't find an answer. “I'll visit her,” she finally said. Mama sat quietly in the passenger seat that afternoon, staring through the window. When they arrived, she looked at the building. “Where are we?” “A place where they'll take care of you.” Mama looked at her. “Are you leaving me here?” Doris's eyes filled immediately. She reached across and held her mother's hand. “I'm trying to make sure you're safe.” Mama pulled her hand away. “You don't want me anymore.” Doris closed her eyes. She had no answer that could make sense to a woman whose memory was slowly disappearing. So she simply whispered, “I love you.” Mama looked away. Doris cried in the car all the way home. She thought leaving her mother was the worst part. She was wrong. The worst part came three days later. Her aunt called. Then her uncle. Then her cousin. Apparently, everyone had an opinion. “You abandoned your mother.” “You couldn't sacrifice a little more?” “She raised you, Doris.” “How could you put her in a home?” “You have become selfish.” Doris listened. She tried to explain. She told them about the nights Mama wandered. She told them about the money. She told them about work and the children. But nobody seemed interested in hearing the details. They had already decided what kind of daughter she was. Then one aunt said something that made Doris go completely silent. “Your husband died and now you think you can just do whatever you want.” Doris stared at the wall. She didn't answer. Because she knew what they didn't. They had opinions. She had the bills. They had sympathy. She had two children asking what was for dinner. They had advice. She had responsibilities. And none of them had been there at two in the morning when Mama wandered into the street. None of them had watched her salary disappear before the month ended. None of them had sat on that kitchen floor and realised there was no good choice left. Still, the calls continued. Then came the messages. One cousin wrote: “You will regret what you've done.” Another replied: “Some things cannot be forgiven.” Doris read the messages twice. Then she put her phone face down on the table. For the first time in months, she wondered if they were right. Maybe she should have tried harder. Maybe she should have borrowed money. Maybe she should have asked someone to help. Maybe a good daughter would have found another way. She hated that she was beginning to believe them. That Sunday evening, Doris was helping Mimi with her homework when her phone rang. The number belonged to the care home. Her stomach tightened. She answered immediately. “Hello?” “Mrs. Okafor?” “Yes.” “This is the care facility where your mother is staying.” Doris stood up. “What happened?” There was a pause. “Your mother is safe.” Doris exhaled. “Okay.” “But I need you to come here as soon as you can.” Her heart began beating faster. “Why? Is she sick?” Another pause. “No. That's not the reason I'm calling.” Doris looked toward the children. “Then what is it?” The woman's voice became quieter. “There's something your mother has been trying to tell us.” Doris frowned. “What?” “We didn't understand her at first.” A pause. “But today, she said your name clearly.” Doris's fingers tightened around the phone. “What did she say?” The woman hesitated. “She said, ‘Tell Doris I didn't leave because of the money.’” Doris stopped breathing. The woman continued. “And Mrs. Okafor…” “Yes?” “She also told us where she believes she left something.” Doris's face went pale. “Where?” The woman gave a small sigh. “At your old house.” Doris's heart dropped. The house had been locked for four years. Since the day her husband died. And as she stood there, listening to the care worker explain what they had found in her mother's belongings, Doris suddenly realised something. Maybe she hadn't abandoned her mother. Maybe her mother had been trying to protect her. And maybe the family had been judging the wrong woman all along.

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