A mother's last stand

agbodike ebere Suspense/Thriller

Part 1
This is my story, but let’s take it back to the root — my mother.
My mother was a young damsel from a poor background, born into hardship she never chose. At just nineteen, with dreams bigger than her circumstances, she left her home in search of greener pastures. She believed that somewhere beyond poverty, life had more to offer her than survival.
She found a job at a company — not behind a desk, not in an office, but as a cleaner. Every day, she scrubbed floors that reflected lives she didn’t live, yet she worked with dignity and quiet hope. Then one ordinary day changed everything.
She met the CEO.
Mr. Obi.
The first time he saw her, he fell in love — or at least that was what he claimed. He was kind, charming, and attentive in ways no one had ever been to her. She loved him too, believing fate had finally smiled at her. They started dating, and in his words, he had never been married. She trusted him. She had no reason not to.
Time passed, and she got pregnant.
When she told him, everything changed.
Mr. Obi asked her to terminate the pregnancy. Calmly. Coldly. As if it was nothing more than a mistake to erase. My mother refused. That child was already her hope, her reason, her miracle. It was then he broke his secret — he was married. And they could never be together.
Her heart shattered.
She told him clearly that over her dead body would she ever terminate that pregnancy. Then she walked away. She quit her job and disappeared, choosing dignity over comfort, truth over lies.
With the little money she had, she relocated to another place and started a small business just to survive. Life was cruel, but she was strong. And in that strength, she gave birth to a baby girl.
She named me Purity.
I was a replica of her beauty — the same eyes, the same face, the same quiet resilience. But beauty did not soften life. Things were extremely tough. Some days, food was a luxury. Some nights, hope was the only thing we had.
When I was seven years old, my mother made a decision that would change our lives forever.
She reached out to my father.
She told him how hard things were. She reminded him that I was his daughter too and that he needed to take responsibility. He refused. Flatly. Completely. As if we never existed.
Life continued — painfully.
One day, we noticed the window protector in our small home was about to fall. My mother removed it, saying she would find someone to fix it later. That morning, I went to school like every other day.
When I returned, my mother told me something that filled my heart with hope — she said my father had promised to start providing for me.
For the first time, I believed life might get better.
A week passed.
He never called. He never showed up. Things became even harder, but we kept managing — the way my mother always did.
Then one night, everything ended.
Someone broke into our home.
He wasn’t there to steal.
He was there to kill.
The man attacked my mother, stabbing her. She fought back with everything she had — for herself, for me. But he stabbed her again… and again… and again. Then he pushed her out of the window.
I watched my mother — my protector, my only companion — die before my eyes.
The killer fled.
I sat there in silence until people gathered, asking questions I couldn’t answer. Words refused to come out. Later, the police arrived, and somehow, I explained everything.
My mother was buried.
And I was taken to an orphanage.
That was the end of my childhood.
And the beginning of a life shaped by loss.
— To be continued (Part 2)

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