I have always felt that the river knows our secrets. Its dark currents have carried our sorrows and whispered our truths for as long as I can remember. Even as a child, I would sit on the bank, my feet dangling over the edge, listening to the quiet lull of the water. When my mother died, the river was the only thing that seemed to understand the emptiness that settled in our house. And when my stepmother, Helen, came into our lives, it was the river that reflected the new warmth she brought, until it carried her away too.
I was six when my mother died. It was a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where the air feels heavier than usual. My mother had gone to the market early, promising to be back before noon. I remember sitting by the window, waiting for her familiar silhouette to appear down the dusty road. But by midday, she still hadn't come home. My father left to search for her, and when he returned hours later, his face was pale and broken.
"She's gone," he had said, his voice strained.
A heart failure, the doctor explained. Sudden and irreversible. I was too young to understand the finality of death then. All I knew was that my mother's side of the bed was cold, her laugh no longer echoed through the house, and the smell of her cooking had vanished from the air. My father tried his best to hold us together, but he was grieving too. Boma, my older sister, became quieter, and Christian, my younger brother, clung to Boma and me as though we might disappear too.
For years, the house felt like a tomb, a place suspended in grief. Then, Helen entered our lives.
My father met her two years after my mother's death. She was nothing like my mother, taller with soft brown eyes and a quiet smile, but there was a steadiness about her that soothed the chaos inside our home. Helen wasn't the type to demand attention; instead, her presence filled the empty spaces. She listened more than she spoke and carried herself with a quiet grace that made you feel safe just being near her.
She didn't try to replace our mother. Instead, she made herself into something different a quiet source of strength. She would brush my hair in the evenings, humming softly while the river's breeze filtered through the open window. She taught Boma how to cook proper native soups and how to fold laundry so it didn't crease. And Christian who had been quiet and angry for so long began to smile again when Helen sat with him, patiently guiding him through his homework.
Helen was the one who held us together when life seemed intent on tearing us apart.
When Boma got married in Aug 2017, Helen was radiant with pride. She had practically planned the wedding herself, making sure every detail was perfect. Boma glowed in her white dress, and helen stood beside her, adjusting the veil and whispering blessings into her ear. Nine months later, 1st of May 2018, Boma gave birth to a baby girl named Samantha.
Helen was overjoyed. I can still see the way her face softened when she held Samantha for the first time. "My granddaughter," she had whispered, brushing her lips over the baby's forehead. Helen would rock Samantha to sleep, humming softly while the baby's small fingers curled around hers.
But happiness has a way of slipping through your fingers.
On June 14, 2018, barely a month after Samantha was born—Helen died.
I was in my third year at Rivers State University, studying accounting. That morning was normal enough. I had just finished a morning lecture when my phone rang. My father's voice was calm, too calm.
"Elizabeth…" His voice cracked. "She's gone."
I don't remember much after that. A stroke, they said. Sudden and merciless. There was no warning, no time to prepare. Helen had been in the living room with Christian when it happened. One moment, she was laughing at something Christian had said. The next, she clutched her chest and collapsed. Christian screamed for help, but by the time my father reached her side, she was already gone.
Her funeral was quiet. Boma sat with Samantha in her arms, tears streaking her face. My father stood like a statue at the graveside, his face carved from stone. Christian barely spoke for days afterward. It was as if Helen's death had hollowed out the last bit of warmth in our house.
We had survived so much already my mother's death, the loss of our three other siblings whom I barely remember but losing Helen felt different. It was like losing the person who had stitched us back together after the first unraveling.
It's strange how life carries on after loss. I went back to school, Boma cared for Samantha, and my father threw himself into work. But beneath the surface, we were all drifting apart.
It was on one of those days, when the weight of grief felt unbearable, that I discovered the journal.
I was walking by the riverbank after class when I spotted something half-buried in the reeds. It was a small, worn leather journal. The cover bore an embossed symbol that resembled a twisted vine a mark that stirred memories I couldn't place. I knelt down and pulled it free, brushing away the dirt.
Inside, the pages were filled with elegant, looping script. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the contents were not. They spoke of secrets hidden beneath the river's depths, of a legacy intertwined with love and loss. One entry, in particular, stopped me cold:
"To the Keeper of Our Souls. When the river speaks, follow its voice. The answers lie where the water meets the forest."
I was still flipping through the journal when a knock sounded at my door. My heart jumped. I closed the journal with trembling hands. It couldn't be my father; I had seen him at the dinner table only an hour earlier. My mind raced through the possibilities would it be Boma, Christian, or maybe even someone else entirely.
Another knock, sharper this time. Slowly, I rose from the desk and crossed the room. My hand hovered over the doorknob as the knock came again.
When I opened the door, the figure standing there made my breath catch.
"I think you've been looking for me," they said, their voice low and familiar.
Outside, the river's current seemed to grow louder, its whispers mingling with the pounding of my heart.