Amira hadn't expected therapy to feel like this—so raw, so exposing, and yet oddly freeing. She sat in the sunlit office with her hands clasped in her lap, trying not to pick at the edge of her scarf. Dr. Naya sat across from her, her presence calm but alert, like a mirror that didn't judge.
"Do you feel like the little girl in you ever got a chance to speak?" the therapist asked gently.
Amira blinked. No one had ever asked her that before.
"I think," she began slowly, "I silenced her a long time ago. I had to grow up too quickly."
Dr. Naya nodded. "Maybe she's still waiting. Waiting to be heard. Maybe your healing isn't about fixing what broke but letting her speak for the first time."
The words settled like seeds in Amira's chest. When she left the office that day, Lagos felt different—less like a city that swallowed her and more like a place she could walk through without hiding.
She returned home to the scent of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. Idris had tried his hand at banana bread again, and judging by the mess in the kitchen, it was a warzone of good intentions.
"You know," she called out, dropping her bag by the couch, "you could just admit baking isn't your thing."
He appeared from the hallway wearing a flour-smudged apron. "Never. I'm improving. Slowly. Painfully."
She walked over and peeked into the oven. "It's not burnt. That's new."
"Progress," he declared proudly.
She turned to him, her eyes softening. "Thank you."
"For the bread?" he asked.
"For staying."
His smile faltered just a little, becoming something quieter. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
They shared a moment, unspoken but understood. It was becoming easier now, being honest without armor. Later, after the girls had been tucked into bed and the dishes were cleared, they curled up on the balcony with mugs of warm tea.
Amira looked up at the stars. "Do you think people like us get a second chance that actually works?"
Idris didn't look at the sky. He was watching her. "I don't think this is a second chance. I think it's our first real one."
She met his gaze. "Then I don't want to waste it."
"You're not."
They sat in silence, wrapped in the night air, until Idris cleared his throat. "I have something to tell you."
Amira's heart fluttered, but she nodded. "Okay."
"I turned down a deal last week. A big one. It would've meant moving operations to Dubai. But I realized I was making decisions based on who I used to be—the man who thought he needed more power to matter."
Amira watched him, stunned. "You didn't tell me."
"I wanted to be sure. And I am. I want to build something here—with you. Not just a life, Amira. A partnership. One where we both have voices, dreams, fire."
Her breath caught. "You gave all that up for me?"
"No," he said softly. "I gave it up for us."
The tears came suddenly, not from sadness, but from being seen in a way she'd never imagined. "I don't know what I did to deserve this version of you."
He reached over and took her hand. "You survived. You kept showing up. That's what you did."
The next few days moved with surprising ease. Idris began working more from home, adjusting his schedule around the girls' routines. He picked up Liyana from school and helped Mayah with her spelling tests. He sat on the floor and learned how to braid, much to Amira's amusement and the girls' horror.
One evening, as the girls laughed in the background, Amira watched Idris attempt a fishtail braid on Liyana's doll. Her heart swelled with a warmth she couldn't quite name.
"You're different with them," she said, sitting beside him on the carpet.
"I'm trying," he replied. "I didn't grow up with a model for this. But I want them to remember their father as someone who was present."
"They will," she whispered. "They already do."
The words made him pause. Slowly, he leaned closer. "And you? How do you remember me?"
Amira smiled. "As the man who showed up when it mattered most."
His lips brushed hers, tentative but tender, like a promise. She kissed him back, a little longer, a little deeper, until Mayah's squeal from the hallway interrupted them.
"Ew! Mummy! Daddy's kissing again!"
They burst into laughter, and the moment, though broken, felt perfect.
That weekend, Idris planned a small getaway to a quiet beach resort just outside Lagos. The girls stayed with his sister, and for the first time in months, Amira and Idris had a moment that belonged only to them.
The air was salty, the waves soft, and the sky wore a wash of gold as the sun dipped lower. They walked barefoot along the shoreline, fingers intertwined, silence between them humming with peace.
"I've never been this calm before," Amira admitted. "Not even before all the chaos."
"That's because you never had the space to just be."
She looked up at him. "I still have fears, Idris. About the future. About us."
"I know," he said gently. "But I'm not asking you to erase your fears. Just let me walk with you through them."
The sincerity in his voice rooted something steady in her. She turned to him, standing still as the waves kissed their feet. "Then walk with me. Into all of it."
He cupped her face, eyes locked on hers. "Always."
That night, wrapped in white sheets and candlelight, Amira allowed herself to believe in a future that didn't begin with pain. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It no longer felt like a dream. It felt like home.
The next morning, Amira woke up with the sea breeze filtering through the curtains. The quiet hum of waves outside was a stark contrast to the constant chaos of Lagos, and for the first time in years, she didn't wake up feeling anxious. She turned to find Idris still asleep beside her, one arm loosely draped over her waist, his face softened by sleep in a way that made him look younger, almost boyish.
She gently traced the curve of his jaw with her fingers, a smile tugging at her lips. This man—the one who had once been a symbol of power and indifference—was now her partner, her anchor. She leaned in and kissed his forehead.
When he stirred, his eyes fluttered open and landed on her. "Good morning, beautiful."
"You snore a little when you're really tired," she teased.
He groaned and covered his face with the pillow. "I knew the romance would die eventually."
She laughed, and the sound felt easy, unforced. "Not dying. Just evolving."
They had breakfast on the terrace, overlooking the ocean. Fresh fruit, buttery croissants, and the kind of silence that didn't feel awkward. Amira sipped her tea slowly.
"I was thinking," she said, setting her cup down, "about going back to school."
Idris's eyes lit up. "You should. You always wanted to finish your degree in psychology, right?"
She nodded. "Yes. I kept putting it off because… life kept getting in the way. But I think I'm ready now."
"Then let's make it happen."
His instant support warmed her. She had expected at least some hesitation, especially with the girls and the business of life, but he seemed genuinely excited for her.
"And you?" she asked. "Any more surprise career shifts you're planning?"
He grinned. "No more surprises. I'm focusing on my consultancy firm. Smaller scale. Less pressure. More time with my family."
Amira raised an eyebrow. "The Idris I knew never used the word family unless it was about his corporate empire."
"That Idris was lonely," he said quietly.
They returned to Lagos the following day, and even though the familiar noise and traffic welcomed them back, something had changed. Their home no longer felt like a place to pass through. It was a haven.
A few weeks later, Amira applied for part-time university courses. The day she received her acceptance letter, she cried. Idris surprised her with flowers, and the girls made her a card with stick figures and sparkly stickers that said "Best Mummy in the World."
Things weren't perfect. There were still days when she struggled with doubt or when Idris got lost in work longer than planned. But now, they talked about it. They worked through it. They didn't let silence fester.
One evening, as they cleaned up after dinner, Idris pulled her close in the kitchen.
"What?" she asked, laughing as she wiped her hands on a towel.
"I was just thinking about how far we've come."
She leaned into him. "Feels like a different lifetime."
"And still," he whispered into her hair, "I'd choose you again. Every time."
Amira closed her eyes and let the truth of it settle in her bones.
For the first time, she was not waiting for the other shoe to drop. She wasn't surviving anymore. She was living—growing, loving, and becoming. Her past hadn't disappeared, but it no longer controlled her future.
And that, more than anything, felt like her first real chance.