When History Repeats Itself

The Things They Hid

** Sumaya - Angela Simmons**

The next day passed quietly, but quiet in our family had become loaded with meaning. I'd gone back to the apartment to pack a few things for Sumaya and me—just until Monday, though I suspected she'd need longer. Recovery had taught me that healing doesn't follow convenient timelines.

Sumaya barely spoke to me, only leaving her room for a meeting with my dad and an attorney from his firm. I recognized the signs: the withdrawal, the shame, the need to control something when everything felt chaotic. I'd lived there for months.

I sat by her on the bed, watching her watch a European crime drama. Saturday mornings used to be our sacred time—binge-watching comedies, Sumaya baking muffins while I made smoothies, gossiping about her hospital colleagues while I shared whatever drama I could glean from entertainment news. Simple rituals that meant everything when you're trying to rebuild normal.

This Saturday was different. No muffins, no laughter, no gossip. Just dead silence and the weight of another family crisis. But I stayed anyway, the way people had stayed with me when I couldn't offer much in return.

At four o'clock, I brought down Sumaya's half-filled plate. She'd barely touched Aunt Jamila's creamy mushroom soup and baked potatoes—her favorite comfort food. Aunt Jamila stared at the plate hopefully, then shrunk back when she saw how little Sumaya had eaten.

Food as love, food as medicine—something Aunt Jamila understood deeply. She'd been the one to teach me that cooking could be meditation, that feeding people was a form of care I could still offer when I felt useless in every other way. During my worst days, she'd sit with me in this same kitchen, teaching me to make kelewele and banku, her hands guiding mine when I shook too much to hold a knife steady.

"She'll eat when she's ready," I told Aunt Jamila softly. "Sometimes you have to honor the process, even when it looks like giving up."

Aunt Jamila nodded, understanding passing between us. She'd learned these lessons during my recovery too.

By half past six, when the doorbell rang, my palms got sweaty. I knew exactly who stood behind that door, and four years of sobriety hadn't made family confrontations any easier. If anything, feeling everything without chemical buffer made it worse.

I opened the door and faced the curvy woman in a red midi dress. My mother, Seli Kerington, looked at me with black eyes that searched mine for remorse. Her lips formed a thin smile.

"Hello daughter."

"Hello mummy. I am sorry. I should have called. I am sorry." The words poured out—another recovery lesson. Quick accountability, even when your pride fights it.

"I will deal with you later," she said slowly, walking past me into the living room.

Deal with me. Like I was still a problem to be managed rather than a person trying to do better. Some family dynamics die hard, even when everyone's trying their best.

She threw her arms around Sumaya without a word, and I watched my mother's face soften in a way that used to make me jealous before recovery taught me that love isn't finite. There's enough for both of us, even when it doesn't always feel equal.

We sat at the large round table in our usual formation—a family constellation that had adjusted over the years to accommodate crisis, addiction, recovery, and now divorce. My dad said grace in Ewe, the way he always did when we needed extra protection, and we began eating.

The silence felt different from our usual comfortable dinner quiet. This was loaded, careful—the kind of silence families develop when they've learned that words can explode without warning.