#####Chapter4: Things Better Left Buried

Anita’s hand tightened around the phone as if she could crush the voice coming through it.

Her mother hadn’t called in five years.

Not once after Clara was born. Not when Anita was hospitalised after overworking during her first launch. Not when her name finally graced a Forbes cover. Not for anything.

But now, out of nowhere, she’d resurfaced—like a shadow that had just remembered it used to belong.

“What do you want?” Anita said, her tone clipped, controlled.

“I want to see you.”

Anita closed her eyes. Even that voice still knew how to unnerve her. Smooth. Measured. But never safe.

“You want to see me?” she repeated. “After all these years?”

“I heard about Clara.”

Anita’s breath caught.

“From who?”

A pause. Too calculated.

“From someone who says he’s willing to make things right. Someone who regrets letting you go.”

Zan.

Of course.

Anita stepped away from the lounge window, the sun suddenly too bright.

“So you’re working with him now?”

“I’m not working with anyone,” her mother said. “But I think he deserves a chance to explain.”

Anita laughed, bitter and cold. “He had his chance. He just didn’t think I was worth fighting for.”

“Maybe he thought you were strong enough to survive without him.”

“I was.”

“Then why do you sound like a woman who’s still bleeding?”

That hit harder than it should have. And it was exactly why Anita had cut this woman out of her life in the first place.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyse me anymore.”

“I’m not. I’m just asking you to stop turning your pain into a wall.”

Anita’s eyes narrowed. “You mean like you did when Dad left?”

The silence on the other end confirmed it: she'd struck deep.

“I’m in Lagos,” her mother finally said. “I’m staying at the Coral Bay Hotel. I’ll be here until Sunday.”

“Then I’ll make sure to avoid that area,” Anita replied.

She ended the call before another word could slice her open.

That night, Anita sat on Clara’s bed, stroking her daughter’s curls as she drifted to sleep.

Clara always slept on her side, one arm curled under her cheek. It was a habit Anita had noticed since infancy—small things that made her feel connected even on days she felt like she was failing.

The room was soft with the lull of white noise and the smell of lavender.

But inside Anita, there was only noise.

Zan.

Her mother.

Memories.

Regret.

And something colder—fear. Not for herself. But for Clara. For the way the past was clawing its way back into their present.

Anita leaned down, kissed Clara’s forehead, and stood quietly.

She stepped into the hallway and nearly jumped when her phone buzzed again.

Another unknown number.

She hesitated, then picked up.

But this time, the voice wasn’t from her past.

It was clinical. Direct.

“Ms. Callister? This is Dr. Eze from Morningdew Lab. I have your DNA result ready.”

Her mouth went dry.

“Go on.”

“There’s a 99.97% probability that Mr. Z. Benson is the biological father of your daughter.”

Anita let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

Not because she doubted the truth.

But now, it was official.

Now, the game had changed.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and ended the call.

The next morning, she walked into her office earlier than usual, wearing confidence like war paint.

Her assistant looked up, surprised.

“Ma’am, your nine o’clock isn’t until—”

“I know,” Anita said, brushing past. “Clear my ten. I’ll need time.”

She stepped into her glass-walled corner office and locked the door behind her.

Then she pulled out her phone and called Zan.

He answered on the second ring.

“I have the results,” she said without greeting.

“I assumed.”

Her voice didn’t waver. “She’s yours. As if we didn’t already know.”

There was silence on his end. But it wasn’t a surprised silence. It was something heavier. Graver.

“I want to see her again,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I want her to know me. I want her to know where she came from.”

“She came from me,” Anita replied. “And I did just fine.”

“I know you did. But I wasn’t there. And I regret that every day.”

“Regret doesn’t entitle you to her.”

“I’m not asking for rights.”

She paused. “Then what are you asking for?”

Zan’s voice softened. “A chance. Just a chance to meet her in a space that isn’t a hallway or an accident.”

Anita exhaled.

Then, slowly: “Come to the park. Saturday. 10 a.m. You’ll have one hour.”

“I’ll be there.”

She hung up before she changed her mind.

On Saturday morning, Clara danced around in the living room, her pink sneakers lighting up with each step.

“Are we going to the butterfly garden again?”

“Yes, baby,” Anita said, helping her zip her jacket. “But today, someone special will meet us there.”

Clara paused. “Is it that man again?”

Anita crouched to meet her eyes. “Yes. And I want you to be kind. But if you feel uncomfortable at any point, you tell me, okay?”

Clara nodded solemnly. “Will you be watching?”

“Always.”

The park was quiet when they arrived. Morning sun filtered through the jacaranda trees, and the soft sound of running water echoed from the koi pond.

Zan was already there.

He stood near a bench by the water, hands in his pockets, wearing something rare on his face.

Uncertainty.

Clara spotted him first.

“There he is!” she said, running toward him.

Anita’s heart stopped.

Zan knelt as Clara approached, smiling carefully.

“Hi again,” she said, eyeing him.

“Hi, Clara,” Zan said gently. “May I sit with you?”

Clara looked back at Anita, who nodded once.

Then she grabbed Zan’s hand and pulled him toward the bench.

Anita stood under the shade, arms crossed, watching every movement.

She watched her daughter giggle.

She watched Zan kneel and listen as Clara described the butterflies and her favourite colours and how she liked mango juice more than orange.

She watched Zan laugh—a real one—and her chest ached at the sound.

Then she turned.

She couldn’t watch anymore.

Not because it hurt.

But because it felt… dangerous.

Hope always did.

Back at the hotel, a different storm was brewing.

Anita’s mother stood on the balcony, phone pressed to her ear.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “They’ve met.”

The voice on the other end responded firmly.

“Good. We’re almost there. Once Clara’s name is legally recognised, the foundation can be restructured.”

She nodded. “Don’t worry. Anita doesn’t suspect anything. She still thinks I came here for forgiveness.”

She paused. Then: “And Zan? He still believes I’m on his side.”