Alex Jr. was five years old now, and the questions had become harder to answer.
It was a warm Saturday afternoon in Lagos. Claire and her son were sitting on the small balcony of their apartment, sharing a bowl of sliced mango and pineapple. The city hummed below them — distant laughter, the call of street vendors, the vibrant chaos that had become their normal. Alex Jr. leaned against her side, his head resting on her arm, his emerald-green eyes (so strikingly like his father’s) fixed on the horizon.
“Mummy,” he said suddenly, his small voice thoughtful, “why don’t I have a daddy like Chidi and Tobi at school?”
Claire’s heart clenched so tightly she almost dropped the bowl. She had known this moment would come, but it still hit her like a wave. She pulled her son closer, pressing a kis
