Home Is Betrayal

I have always hated the tree outside my window.

It never knew what to do. It either swayed too much or too little. It housed too many ants. I have never seen fruit on it. Tonight, however, as its branches tap heavily against my window, I have more patience than usual. Perhaps because I know it will be the last time I hear it like this.

I should sleep.
She is going to wake me in a few hours.
“Prepare to go home” is all the explanation I got.

Prepare to leave her, to leave the life I knew and the tree I hated. I wondered how she could let go of me. It has been the two of us as far back as I can remember. She must have always known I was not hers to keep forever.

I put the last of my boxes in the car. I remember buying this one. My grandmother and I had debated its purchase with an Irish salesman looking on. She was on the side of efficiency and space; I was fighting for colors. When we finally paid for the suitcase, she smiled broadly at me. I had not won the argument; she gave in because I had dared to argue with her. She had been right. The suitcase couldn’t hold more than five pairs of shoes at once.

I turn towards the house, our house, and I wonder how long it will be before new memories suffocate the ones I already had.

My grandmother would not come down. She claims to be tired. This morning, we held each other for what seemed like forever and cried. Still, it had not seemed long enough. She does not want to seem reluctant to let me go. My grandmother had it all. Pride was no exception.

The sound of metal gates opening woke me up. I raised my head from the bag I was using as a pillow. I had been to this house before, but then I always knew when I would leave. Today, it looked bigger. Like an exaggeration of what it really is.

She is standing outside.
Although I hate to admit it, My mother is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. On its own, each of her facial features was not anything spectacular. Together, however, they created a likeness comparable to a Gainsborough painting.
She smiled at me; she was smiling for me.

My heart stopped just as the engine died.
“Boluwatife, Welcome home.”

Years from now, I would think about how those words made me feel. I would shiver in what my heart thinks to be a betrayal to the woman who raised me.

Right now, despite my stubbornness, I knew I had waited all this time to hear her say that to me.