(Lizzy's POV)
The silence after Funmi's call didn't feel empty.
It felt charged.
Days passed without messages from home. No check-ins. No reminders. No passive questions disguised as concern. The absence sat between us like something unfinished, something waiting to be acknowledged.
Funmi moved differently now. Quieter, but not withdrawn. There was a firmness to her movements, like she was testing new ground with each step. She still went to class, still cooked, still reminded me to eat—but she no longer filled every pause with reassurance.
I didn't know whether to be relieved or afraid.
On Saturday morning, her phone buzzed while she was in the shower. I glanced at it without thinking and froze.
Mum calling.
When Funmi came out, towel wrapped around her shoulders, I handed her the phone without a word.
She stared at the screen for a long moment. Then she answered.
"Yes," she said, voice steady.
I sat at the edge of my bed, pretending not to listen, though every word landed in my chest.
"We need to talk," our mother said. "This attitude you can't bring it into this family."
Funmi's jaw tightened. "I didn't bring anything new. I just stopped hiding it."
A pause. Then, sharper: "You've changed since leaving home."
Funmi exhaled slowly. "I had to."
"And Lizzy?" our mother continued. "Is she filling your head with ideas?"
That was when I stood up.
Funmi noticed immediately. She raised a hand not to stop me, but to ground herself.
"Lizzy isn't the problem," she said. "She never was."
"You've always defended her," our mother replied. "Even when it strained the family."
Funmi's voice didn't rise. That was what scared me most.
"It didn't strain the family," she said. "It revealed it."
Silence.
Then: "We're coming to visit next month."
My heart dropped.
Funmi didn't respond right away. When she did, her words were careful, deliberate.
"That might not be a good idea."
"You don't get to decide that," our mother snapped.
"I do," Funmi said quietly. "For myself. And for Lizzy."
The call ended without goodbye.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
"They think distance means disrespect," Funmi said finally. "They don't understand that it's survival."
I swallowed. "Are you scared?"
She nodded. "Yes. But I'm more scared of going back to who I was."
That night, I couldn't sleep. Memories crept in uninvited raised voices softened into 'concern,' pain repackaged as discipline, gratitude used like a leash.
I realized something then.
My healing had shifted the balance.
The family system depended on my silence, on Funmi's compliance. And now, neither of us fit the shape we were supposed to hold.
The next week, Funmi emailed home instead of calling. Clear boundaries. Limited access. No explanations layered with apology.
There was no reply.
The distance hurt but it also breathed.
One evening, as we washed dishes side by side, Funmi said softly, "I don't know what this means for the future."
I looked at her. "I know what it means for us."
She met my eyes.
"We choose each other," I said. "Without disappearing."
Funmi nodded, something like grief and relief crossing her face at once.
The space between us between who we were and who we were becoming still existed.
But for the first time, it didn't feel like abandonment.
It felt like room.