Gabriel stepped into his house and was instantly wrapped in warmth.
"Welcome, my son!" his mother called from the kitchen, the aroma of spicy jollof rice wafting through the air.
His little sister ran up to him and hugged his waist. His father—usually absent till late—was home early, lounging on the couch with a newspaper folded beside him and a soft smile on his face.
Gabriel blinked. "Daddy? You're around?"
His father chuckled. "I wanted to surprise you all today. Spend some time together."
His mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Come now, come eat. Your favorites are ready. Today's a good day."
Gabriel smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He should have felt grateful. His home was peaceful, full of warmth, laughter, and the scent of dinner. He had both parents present, a soft bed to lie in, a mother who never shouted and a father who asked how his day went.
But his chest felt heavy.
He sat at the edge of the dining table, quiet. His family didn't notice the shift immediately—they were too caught up in the joy of a complete family evening. But inside Gabriel, something was unraveling.
His mind drifted back to Angela.
To the way she smiled through pain.
To the way she brushed off bruises—emotional and maybe even physical—as if they were mosquito bites.
To the way she said, "It's not that deep," when it was obvious her world was drowning.
Gabriel suddenly felt sick.
He stood up slowly. "I'm not really hungry," he mumbled.
His mom looked up, surprised. "Are you okay?"
"I just… I want to lie down."
He walked away before she could say more, up the stairs, into his room, and shut the door softly.
He sat on his bed, legs drawn up to his chest. The sounds of cutlery and cheerful conversation downstairs faded behind the wooden door. Here, in his room, it was quiet.
Painfully quiet.
He couldn't shake the image of Angela walking alone, her shoulders hunched, shoes dusty, her eyes tired. He imagined her house—silent, broken, filled with anger. Her mother yelling. Her father gone. Her spirit slowly cracking.
And here he was, with everything she didn't have.
It didn't feel fair.
It didn't feel right.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Why her? Why not me?
His chest tightened. A strange sadness crept in. He didn't feel grateful for what he had—he felt guilty. Deeply. As if somehow he was betraying Angela just by living a life where love came easily.
He thought about her words earlier that day.
"Just forget it. Don't dip it. I'm fine."
But she wasn't fine. And he knew it.
Gabriel's fists clenched.
He wanted to help. But how? What could he say? What could he do? He was only a boy. He couldn't save her. He couldn't fix her family.
A dark thought flickered across his mind.
What if I was the one feeling all that pain? What if I woke up every day dreading home?
Would he even survive?
Maybe I'd already be gone.
The thought lingered, heavy and dark. His heartbeat slowed, and for a terrifying second, he imagined a world without Angela.
He imagined her giving up.
And suddenly, he couldn't breathe.
"No," he whispered. "No, she has to stay. She has to."
Tears prickled at his eyes, but he blinked them away.
Downstairs, his mother called out, "Gabriel! Food is getting cold!"
"I'm not hungry!" he shouted, louder than he meant to.
The silence after that said everything.
He curled deeper into his blanket, a soft sob escaping his throat.
God, he thought, please don't let her die. Please let her stay. If you're listening, if you care… let her survive this.
He closed his eyes and didn't sleep for a long time.