Lina's father came home in the evening, much later than he had originally planned. He had intended to return in the morning, but work had kept him at the company all day. There was always something demanding his attention—meetings that dragged on, last-minute reports, and employees knocking on his door with urgent issues. By the time he finally walked through the front door, exhaustion clung to him, but the familiar warmth of home made it worth it.
The living room was empty, but faint voices drifted from the bedroom he shared with his wife. He didn't need to guess where they were.
As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. He stopped for a moment, peering inside.
Lina sat on the floor, her head tilted as her mother's fingers worked through her hair, braiding it with the same precision she had since Lina was a child. The gentle tug of the comb, the way her fingers twisted the strands—it was a routine Lina knew well.
"You used to cry so much when I braided your hair," her mother said, shaking her head in amusement.
Lina scoffed. "Mum, that's because you yanked my hair like you were trying to snatch my soul."
Her mother huffed. "I was not yanking. I was making you beautiful."
Lina rolled her eyes. "Yeah, beautiful and in excruciating pain."
Her mother tsked. "You were such a dramatic child. Every time I touched your hair, you screamed like I was cutting it all off."
"Because it hurt! I swear, I thought you were pulling my brain out."
Her mother laughed, shaking her head. "Look at you now, sitting still. No tears, no screaming."
Lina smirked. "Because I know how to suffer in silence now."
Her mother nudged her shoulder. "Don't be silly. You should be thanking me. If I hadn't taken care of your hair all these years, you'd be bald."
Lina scoffed. "Or I could've just gotten a low cut and saved myself all the drama."
Her mother gasped. "Don't say that nonsense! You have beautiful hair. If I had let you cut it, what would you have looked like? Hmm? A little boy? I was making you beautiful."
Lina couldn't help but laugh. "Mum, you were obsessed."
"I was not obsessed," her mother argued. "I was caring. If I didn't do it, who would have? You think I would let my daughter walk around looking anyhow?"
Her father, who had been standing at the door the whole time, finally decided to make his presence known.
"I also used to braid her hair, not just you," he said, stepping inside.
Lina's head snapped up. "Dad!"
She scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her gently.
Her mother watched, still holding the half-braided section of Lina's hair, and smiled at them.
"Look at you," her dad said, pulling back slightly. "You've grown so tall."
"Of course," Lina grinned. "I take after you."
Her dad chuckled. "How have you been? Work? Life?"
Lina leaned against him, trying to keep it casual. "It's okay. Busy. You know how it is."
He nodded. "And where exactly are you living?"
Lina's muscles tensed.
Her mother perked up at the question, her hands pausing in her daughter's hair.
Shit.
Lina quickly forced a nonchalant shrug. "Oh, you know… a place. It's nice."
Her father gave her a knowing look but didn't press. Her mother, however, was already preparing for a full investigation.
Before she could start, Lina jumped to her feet. "I should make dinner!"
Her mother frowned. "But you just woke up. Why don't I—"
"Nope! I got it." Lina grabbed her mum's wrist and practically dragged her out of the bedroom. "You sit and relax."
Her mother narrowed her eyes at her. "You're distracting me."
Lina forced a grin. "Me? Never."
Her mother gave her the look—the one that said she knew her daughter was full of shit.
But Lina didn't give her time to question it further. She bolted into the kitchen and got to work.
Lina didn't just cook.
She cooked.
If she was going to sell this illusion, she had to go all in.
She started by marinating chicken with a blend of spices, garlic, ginger, and fresh herbs, letting the flavors sink in while she worked on other dishes. She made a rich pot of jollof rice, the aroma of tomatoes, bell peppers, and onions filling the kitchen. She knew her mother would immediately notice if she only made something simple, so she made sure to add fried plantains—because her mother loved them, even if she always claimed she wasn't a foodie.
She didn't stop there.
She prepared a bowl of coleslaw with fresh cabbage, carrots, and a creamy dressing, setting it aside while she boiled yams to go with a spicy egg sauce.
For variety, she also made a large pot of vegetable soup with chunks of beef, dried fish, and stockfish—something she knew her mum wouldn't eat too much of but would definitely store in the fridge for later.
To top it off, she made some grilled tilapia, brushing it with a pepper sauce that made her eyes water a little.
It was a lot of food.
But this wasn't just about dinner.
This was strategy.
Lina barely cooked for herself. Most days, she was too exhausted to do anything more than toast bread and pour herself a cup of milk. On the days she had a little more time, she might pick up a quick burger on her way home or order takeout. Instant noodles had practically become a food group in her diet.
Her mother couldn't know that.
If she found out that Lina was surviving on toast, burgers, and cheap coffee, she would lose her fucking mind.
So Lina made a feast.
She knew her mum wouldn't eat too much, but she also hated wasting food—so she'd store the leftovers and assume Lina cooked like this every day.
By the time she finished, the kitchen smelled heavenly, and she felt like she had run a marathon.
She wiped her forehead, then grabbed a tray and carried out the first round of dishes.
Her dad was already seated at the dining table, her mum flipping through her phone beside him.
As soon as she placed the food down, her mother's eyes widened.
"Lina," she gasped. "What is all this?"
Lina smiled innocently. "Dinner."
Her father raised a brow. "For how many people?"
Lina shrugged. "Three. Duh."
Her mum looked beyond skeptical. "You eat like this every day?"
Lina put on her best poker face. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
Her mother narrowed her eyes. "So you're telling me that every day, you come home from work and make all this?"
Lina swallowed. "Yes."
Her father chuckled, shaking his head. He knew she was lying.
Her mum tapped her fingers on the table, still eyeing her suspiciously. "Hmm."
Lina quickly turned away before she cracked under the pressure and admitted she survived off toast and instant noodles half the time.
She disappeared back into the kitchen and returned with more food, setting everything down before finally sitting.
Her father, amused, shook his head again. "Well, let's eat before the foods gets cold."
Lina let out a relieved breath.
Oh, thank fucking God.
They dug into the meal, and despite her mother's initial doubts, she didn't complain.
Lina kept up the act, pretending this was all normal. She watched as her mother picked at her food, not eating too much—as expected—but also not questioning things further.
Her father, however, wasn't fooled.
He didn't say anything, but he gave her a look—one that said, I know exactly what you're doing.
Lina sent him a sheepish smile.
He smirked, shaking his head before taking another bite.
Dinner was a success.
And most importantly, she had managed to avoid the apartment conversation.