Her Awakening

Chapter 1:The Ojo's

The late summer sun cast its golden glow over the elegant Chelsea neighborhood, painting the ivy-draped Georgian homes in hues of amber and rose. Our house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac, a postcard-perfect family home with a neat front garden bursting with roses and lavender. From the outside, it was the kind of house people might pass and imagine a life straight out of a glossy lifestyle magazine. Inside, however, perfection had its cracks.

I moved through the house quietly, my footsteps soft against the polished wood floors. It was the kind of stillness I craved after a long day—the moment when the kids were winding down and the world outside felt like it had hit pause. The living room was its usual cozy self, dotted with evidence of a well-lived life: Markie's cars scattered under the coffee table, Melodie's dolls lined up on the sofa like a tiny army of disapproval.

"Markie, Mel, tidy-up time!" I called from the kitchen, where the scent of freshly fried puff puff lingered in the air. I tied my floral apron tighter and glanced out the window, watching the sun dip lower, the sky streaked with fiery reds and oranges.

In the living room, Markie was mid-tower construction, his tongue sticking out in concentration, while Melodie was rearranging her dolls for the hundredth time.

"Mommy, look! My tower's taller than me!" Markie's face lit up, and I couldn't help but smile.

"It's amazing, baby. You're an architect in the making," I said, leaning against the doorframe.

Melodie looked up, her big brown eyes peering at me. "Mommy, when's Daddy coming home?"

The question was as innocent as it was sharp, slicing through the warmth of the moment. I crossed the room, kneeling beside her to brush back a stray braid.

"He'll be home soon, sweetheart. He's just helping Auntie Emma," I said, my voice calm and steady, even as the words sat heavy on my tongue.

Markie, ever the little truth-teller, looked up from his tower with a frown. "But he's always helping her. That's not fair. I wanted to show him my tower!"

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing a smile. "Daddy loves you both so much. He told me to tell you that. And guess what? You'll see him tomorrow."

Their faces brightened at the promise, though I knew I was banking on borrowed hope. "Now, who wants puff puff before bed?"

That did the trick. Their giggles and chatter filled the kitchen as I served them warm puff puff with chocolate milk. For a little while, everything felt right—the twins happily munching away, telling me stories about their day, Markie insisting he needed to build a "bigger, better" tower tomorrow.

Later, after bedtime routines were done and kisses were planted on sleepy little cheeks, I lingered in the doorway of their shared room. Markie clutched his favorite toy car like it was the most precious thing in the world, and Melodie was cocooned in her pink blanket, her small chest rising and falling peacefully.

Their happiness was what I fought for every single day. But tonight, the fight felt harder than usual.

I retreated to my sanctuary—the small study at the back of the house. It was my space, filled with books, scattered notes, and the faint hum of creativity. Here, I wasn't just Melissa, the wife or mother. I was Moonlight, the writer.

The glow of my laptop screen welcomed me, and I dived into a world of my making. My current project, Whispers of the Forgotten, was about unrequited love, and tonight, the words came too easily. My fingers danced over the keyboard, pouring out the feelings I kept locked away: the longing, the quiet despair, the maddening ache of loving someone who didn't look at you the same way anymore.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the creak of the front door opening. Joshua was home. His footsteps were familiar, but they carried the weight of exhaustion—and something else I didn't want to name.

I shut the laptop, the glow disappearing like a snuffed-out candle. Smoothing down my clothes, I stepped into the hallway, the practiced mask of warmth and composure slipping into place.

"Evening," I greeted as he entered the living room, his shoulders slumped.

"Hey," he replied, his voice flat. "Long day."

I could've told him I knew. That I could guess every detail of his evening with Emma because it was always the same. Instead, I asked, "How's Emma?"

He glanced at me, surprised, before running a hand through his hair. "Rough day for her. She's been really overwhelmed lately. Needed someone to talk to."

I nodded, my smile thin. "You're always so good at being there for her."

If he caught the edge in my tone, he didn't show it. "The kids?"

"They missed you. Markie wanted to show you his tower."

His face softened for a brief moment, guilt flickering in his eyes. "I'll spend time with them tomorrow. I promise."

"Of course," I said, stepping into the kitchen. "Let me get your dinner."

We sat together at the dining table, me picking at a plate of jollof rice while he ate in silence. Occasionally, he'd comment about Emma's struggles or work stresses, and I'd nod and listen like the good wife I'd become.

But in the quiet spaces between his words, my mind wandered back to my stories. To a world where love wasn't divided, where there was no Emma to compete with, where I wasn't just the person left to keep everything together.

And as he finished his meal and thanked me absentmindedly, I found myself smiling through the ache. Because no matter how much the storm raged within me, I couldn't let it show. Not for him. Not for the kids. Not for the version of our life that everyone else thought was perfect.

--------------------AUTHORS NOTE--------------

Hey my Lovelies!!! thank you so much for reading, this is my second project and it needs some editing so I'm getting on it now. let me know what you think comments are appreciated. Bye!