Eloise
I locked my door as soon as I returned from England.
It had been two days now, and I hadn't said much to anyone in the house. I skipped dinner, skipped breakfast, lied about lunch. I couldn't eat. Couldn't speak. My eyes were swollen from crying into the pillows, my chest heavy like I had been grieving. And in some way, I was.
Grieving what? Myself, maybe. My fears. The thought that someone like him—George, a man born of crown and privilege—could look at me, an ordinary African woman who had never even been kissed before him, and ask me to be his wife.
Hilarious. Crazy. Paranormal.
I kept replaying it in my head. The towel. His stare. His disbelief when I told him the truth about myself. And then—Marry me.
My stomach twisted each time.
Why me? Why does it have to be me of all people, why choose me, George? Why? Just why?
He dare look into my face and say it to me: I should marry him? Just like that! No, really. Just. Like. That.
And he expected me to say: yes?
No! That's preposterous. I have never for once seen myself to be the wife of someone let alone the future queen of a great nation.
What is he doing to me? Why did he had to choose me? To bring me over to his castle and introduce me to his family and then, proposed to me to be his wife? No!
No! No! No! I'm not capable. I'm not suitable. I don't deserve it. But he doesn't want to understand either.
A soft knock broke my thoughts.
"Eloise?" mom's voice came from the outside. "Are you alright?"
I froze, quickly wiping my face with the bedsheet. "Yeah, I'm good. Please… I just want to rest."
But of course, she didn't leave. The door creaked open, and there she was, framed in the doorway, wearing her simple Minnie mouse nightie, the one dad recently bought for her. Her eyes, sharp as ever, scanned me from head to toe.
Her brows furrowed. "So, you're in here crying like somebody died, and you think I won't notice? You didn't eat yesterday. You didn't eat today. You think I carried you for nine months not to know when something is wrong with you?"
What kind of African mother is this? Could she just leave me alone? I needed time alone and now, she's intruding.
I turned my face away. "Please, mom. I don't want to talk."
She stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her. She stood with her hands resting on her magnificent hips, the way she always did when she meant business. "Ah! That is what you always say. You don't want to talk. You don't want to explain. You just sulk. What kind of life is that? Hm?"
I sniffed, biting my lip. Silence stretched.
"You know," she continued, lowering her voice, "I used to shout at you because you were the only one left. Your sister is married, your brothers have their homes and families they run home to meet. You, you are the last. And instead of preparing yourself, you would be wasting time, hiding in your room, expecting maids to cook for you. Is that what a woman should be? No! So I used you, I pushed you, I scolded you. Not because I hated you, Eloise, but because I wanted you to see sense. Do you hear me?"
So, marriage was it all along? And right here I was thinking I was the female version of 'Everybody hates Chris?'
Her words hit me harder than I expected. I had always assumed it was punishment. That I was her burden, her failure, the late bloomer. But the way she said it now, her tone almost soft—like she had been holding it in for years—unraveled me.
I turned, slowly, meeting her eyes. Mine brimmed with tears again. "You… you didn't hate me?"
"Hate you?" She almost laughed. "My own blood? Why should I hate you? I was only trying to light fire under you. To make you strong. I am your mother, Eloise. I cannot hate you, no matter how much you think so."
Something broke in me then. The dam burst.
Should I tell her? Can I trust her to tell her?
I sat up straighter, clutching my pillow. "Mommy…" My voice cracked. "Something happened."
She sat on the edge of my bed, her head tilted. "Talk. I am listening."
I hesitated. My fear crawled back—what if she mocked me? What if she used this against me later, the way she always did? But the way she was looking at me, steady, patient, almost… gentle, gave me courage.
So, I told her everything.
I told her about England. The palace. Meeting his parents, the King and Queen. How foreign it all felt, like I was playing a role I wasn't qualified for.
Finally, I told her the part that had broken me. The proposal. How he had looked me dead in the eye, with no hesitation, and said, Marry me.
Geez, it felt like he was telling me again now.
When I finished, silence filled the room. My mother stared at me as if I had just spoken in tongues.
Her lips parted. "Eloise… wait. Are you telling me this man… this George, your friend… he is not just anybody? He is… royal?"
I nodded miserably. "He is noble, mom. His father is a king. His family has bloodlines stretching centuries. He is not just any man."
Her hand flew to her chest. "You mean to tell me that while I was thinking you were wasting your life here, you were there with princes and queens?"
"Mom, it's not funny. Do you understand me at all?" I sighed in frustration. "I don't belong there. I am not their kind. I don't even know how to breathe in that world. And he—he wants me to marry him. Me. How do I say yes when I feel so unworthy?"
Her face softened in a way I had rarely seen. She drew closer, placing her arm around my shoulders.
"You are my daughter," she said firmly. "And if a man of that kind, with that name and that blood, looks at you and says he wants you, then you are worthy. Because you are enough. More than enough."
No.
No. I don't think so.
My tears flowed freely now, soaking into her pajamas. She held me close, rocking me slightly like I was a child again.
"Fear is natural," she whispered. "Marriage is a lifetime journey of two people coming together as one. I understand it is not something you jump into today and tomorrow you'll say: I'm fed up, no. But if you feel for him, and he feels for you, do not let your fear push him away. At least think with your heart, not only your head. Do you hear me?"
I nodded against her shoulder, trembling. "I'm just scared, Mom. Scared of failing. Scared of not being enough."
"You will be enough," she said again, firmer this time. "Because you are mine. And no child of mine will ever be less than what she is meant to be."
For the first time since England, I felt the weight in my chest loosen. Mom's words didn't erase my fears, but they anchored me. Gave me a place to stand.
Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as lost as I thought.