Dami!" Mabel called out.
"Yes, mummy! Coming," Dami answered from inside her room.
It was the weekend, and Damilola had decided to come home and spend it with her mum.
When Dami walked downstairs, she found her mother all dressed up, and she immediately knew what was coming.
"My friend lost her husband. I want to visit her. Will you please drive me?" Mabel asked, staring into Dami's eyes, daring her to say no.
"Sure. Let me change my clothes," Dami replied, heading back upstairs.
Dami's room was simple: a queen-sized bed, black-and-white wallpaper, and various artworks on the walls. A tall wardrobe stood in one corner with a Britney Spears poster hanging from it. On the left side of the room was a small reading table and chair, and next to it, a door led to her bathroom and toilet.
Dami threw on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, grabbed her car keys, and headed back downstairs. Her mum sat on the couch, her lips already pursed in disapproval. Dami had seen that look every day since she was old enough to pick out her own clothes.
"When will you start dressing like a girl?" Mabel asked.
Dami didn't reply. She simply took her mother's bag and walked out to the car. Dami had always been different from the other girls her age around them, and her mother had known it since she was little. She'd never wanted Barbie dolls or princess-themed toys. She hated wearing dresses or skirts—anything remotely feminine, really.
Mabel had grown used to it, but that didn't stop her from asking the same question every chance she got.
Once they were in the car, Mabel input the address of her friend's house into the GPS, and Dami started driving. Driving her mother around was routine whenever she was home. When Dami asked her mother once why she liked being chauffeured, Mabel had simply replied, "Driving alone is lonely, love. Now shut up and watch the road."
They arrived at the house a few minutes later.
"Call me when you're ready, and I'll come get you," Dami said, ready to drive off.
"What? No, you're coming in."
"Why?"
"Lara has a daughter about your age. You can keep her company."
"Mummy…" Dami began to complain, but her mother cut her off.
"Her father just died. She needs a friend."
I'm not her friend, Dami wanted to reply, but the look her mother shot her told her she'd already used up her argument quota for the day.
"Fine," she muttered, turning off the car and following her mother into the house.
"Where did you say you know these people from again?" Dami asked, wanting to know what kind of situation she was walking into.
"Church," her mother replied before knocking on the steel door.
Almost immediately, the door flew open, and a woman about her mother's age stood there, her eyes swollen from crying. They stepped inside, and Dami watched as her mother threw her arms around the woman and hugged her.
"I'm so sorry, dear," Mabel said, still holding her sobbing friend.
Dami shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Finally pulling away, Lara turned to her.
"You must be Damilola," she said, pulling Dami into a brief hug.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Dami said, trying to sound as sincere as possible.
"Helena!" Lara called out, and a voice answered from upstairs.
That must be the daughter I'm supposed to babysit, Dami thought, already trying to come up with an excuse to leave. She couldn't imagine a worse way to spend her weekend than babysitting her mother's friend's grieving daughter.
But as Helena came down the stairs, Dami froze. Beautiful was the only word her brain managed to register. Helena had long braids pulled into a ponytail, but it was her eyes that caught Dami's attention—piercing blue and utterly captivating.
"Good morning, ma," Helena said softly, her voice smooth but with a raspy edge that Dami couldn't help but notice. She greeted Mabel, her gaze flickered briefly to Dami, and their eyes met. Dami felt like she was being held in place, and she struggled to tear her focus away.
"Take Damilola upstairs," Lara said, "so you girls can keep each other company."
Helena nodded. "Hi," she said to Dami, her lips curving into a polite smile.
"Hi," Dami replied.
Dami followed Helena up the staircase, her shoes scuffing lightly against the wooden steps. The stairs led to a smaller sitting room, cozy but minimal, with soft lighting and a plush couch pressed against one wall.
"Can I offer you anything?" Helena asked, walking toward a mini-fridge tucked into the corner of the room.
"Sure, whatever," Dami replied, shrugging.
Helena pulled out a box of fruit juice and two glasses, setting them on the low table between them. "Allergies?" she asked, glancing at Dami as she poured.
It took Dami a second to realize what she meant. "Oh—no, no allergies." She shook her head quickly.
They sat in silence for a moment, Dami cradling the glass in her hands. The room felt too still, the air heavy. Finally, Dami blurted out, "You don't look like you're mourning."
The words spilled out before she could stop them, and she immediately regretted it. But Helena didn't look offended—just surprised. After a beat, she smiled, faint and small. "I'm not."
Dami blinked at her, confused. "You're not?"
Helena exhaled and leaned back against the couch. "Kunle wasn't my dad. He was just... my mother's husband. I didn't know him very well, and I didn't like him all that much, to be honest." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I mean, I'm sad he's dead—he made my mom happy—but I don't feel like crying my eyes out over him."
Dami nodded slowly, watching her. There was something oddly refreshing about Helena's honesty.
"Damilola, right?" Helena asked suddenly, a small smile tugging at her lips.
Dami's gaze flickered to her mouth before she caught herself. "Dami," she corrected.
Helena nodded. "Helena," she said, her smile growing slightly. "No fancy nickname, unfortunately."
"I can come up with something," Dami replied, her own smile creeping in.