Lina's father came home in the evening—much later than he had planned. He'd intended to return in the morning, but work had kept him trapped at the office all day. There was always something that demanded his attention: meetings that wouldn't end, urgent reports, and employees knocking on his door with last-minute crises.
By the time he finally walked through the front door, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin—but the familiar warmth of home made it all worth it.
The living room was empty, but he could hear faint voices coming from the bedroom he shared with his wife. He didn't need to guess where they were.
As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar and paused for a moment, peering inside.
Lina sat on the floor, her head tilted forward as her mother's fingers moved through her hair, braiding it with the same precision she'd used since Lina was a child. The gentle tug of the comb, the rhythmic twist of her fingers—it was a routine Lina knew by heart.
"You used to cry so much when I braided your hair," her mother said, shaking her head with a soft chuckle.
Lina scoffed. "Mum, that's because you yanked my hair like you were trying to snatch my soul."
Her mother huffed. "I was not yanking. I was making you beautiful."
Lina rolled her eyes. "Yeah, beautiful and in excruciating pain."
"You were such a dramatic child. Every time I touched your hair, you screamed like I was cutting it all off."
"Because it hurt! I thought you were pulling my brain out."
Her mother laughed, shaking her head. "Look at you now. Sitting still. No tears, no screaming."
Lina smirked. "Because now I know how to suffer in silence."
Her mother nudged her shoulder. "Don't be silly. You should be thanking me. If I hadn't taken care of your hair all these years, you'd be bald."
"Or," Lina said with a raised brow, "I could've just gotten a low cut and saved myself all the drama."
Her mother gasped. "Don't say that nonsense! You have beautiful hair. If I had let you cut it, what would you have looked like, hmm? A little boy? I was making you beautiful."
Lina laughed. "Mum, you were obsessed."
"I was not obsessed," her mother said indignantly. "I was caring. If I didn't do it, who would have? You think I'd let my daughter walk around looking anyhow?"
Her father, who had been standing at the door the whole time, finally stepped inside.
"I also used to braid her hair, not just you," he said with a grin.
Lina's head snapped up. "Dad!"
She jumped to her feet and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close with a warmth only a father could offer.
Her mother watched them, still holding the half-braided section of Lina's hair, a soft smile playing on her lips.
"Look at you," her dad said, pulling back slightly. "You've grown so tall."
"Of course," Lina said with a grin. "I take after you."
He chuckled. "How've you been? Work? Life?"
Lina leaned against him, trying to keep it light. "It's okay. Busy, you know?"
He nodded, then asked, "And where exactly are you living now?"
Her muscles tensed.
Her mother's hands froze in her hair.
Shit.
Lina forced a casual shrug. "Oh, you know… a place. It's nice."
Her father gave her a knowing look, but didn't press. Her mother, on the other hand, was gearing up for an investigation.
Before she could start, Lina sprang to her feet. "I should make dinner!"
Her mother frowned. "But you just woke up. Why don't I—"
"Nope! I got it." Lina grabbed her mum's wrist and practically dragged her out of the bedroom. "You sit and relax."
Her mother narrowed her eyes. "You're distracting me."
Lina grinned. "Me? Never."
She caught the look—the one that said her mum knew she was full of shit—but Lina didn't give her time to dwell on it. She bolted into the kitchen.
---
Lina didn't just cook.
She cooked.
If she was going to sell this illusion, she had to go all in.
She started with marinated chicken, blending spices, garlic, ginger, and fresh herbs. The aroma alone could calm a civil war. Then came the jollof rice—tomatoes, bell peppers, onions—cooked to perfection, the kitchen filling with warmth and color. For good measure, she fried plantains, because her mum loved them, even if she pretended not to care about food.
She didn't stop there.
Coleslaw with fresh cabbage and carrots. Boiled yam and spicy egg sauce. A large pot of vegetable soup with chunks of beef, dried fish, and stockfish—something her mum wouldn't eat much of but would stash in the fridge for later. And just to flex, grilled tilapia brushed with pepper sauce.
It was a feast.
But this wasn't just about food.
This was strategy.
Lina barely cooked for herself. Most days, she survived on toast, milk, or a burger on her way home. Instant noodles were practically a personality trait.
If her mum ever found that out, she'd flip.
So Lina overdid it. She cooked enough to feed an army. Her mum wouldn't eat much, but she hated wasting food—so she'd refrigerate everything and assume Lina cooked like this every day.
By the time she finished, the kitchen smelled like heaven and her legs were ready to fall off. She wiped her forehead, grabbed a tray, and carried out the first set of dishes.
Her dad was already seated, her mum scrolling through her phone beside him.
The moment she placed the food down, her mother's eyes widened.
"Lina," she said. "What is all this?"
"Dinner," Lina replied innocently.
Her father raised a brow. "For how many people?"
"Three. Duh."
Her mum looked deeply unconvinced. "You eat like this every day?"
Lina nodded. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
Her mother gave her a look. "So you come home from work and make all this?"
Lina swallowed. "Yes."
Her father chuckled, clearly amused. He could see right through her.
Her mother, however, tapped her fingers on the table. "Hmm."
Lina turned quickly, disappearing back into the kitchen before her expression cracked.
She brought out the rest of the dishes and sat down.
"Well," her dad said, eyeing the table. "Let's eat before the food gets cold."
Lina let out a quiet, relieved breath.
Thank fucking God.
They ate. Her mum didn't question much after that, even if she didn't eat too much. And her dad? He just gave her a look that said, I know what you're doing.
Lina gave him a sheepish smile.
He smirked.
Dinner was a win.
And more importantly, the apartment conversation was off the table—at least for now.