The next morning, Arriella woke up feeling a peculiar weight on her shoulders—not the heavy burden she had carried for months, but the kind that signals a significant change is coming.
Khalid's words from the previous night echoed in her mind.
"Lying feels easier now… but it will hurt more later."
She perched on the edge of her bed, gazing at her slippers and breathing deeply. It was clear to her.
She was ready to share the truth with her parents.
Not because she thought they would understand.
Not because she anticipated a warm embrace or forgiveness.
But simply because she was exhausted.
Exhausted from running.
Exhausted from hiding.
Exhausted from pretending everything was okay while she felt like she was drowning.
---
Work moved slowly that day, but Arriella barely noticed. Her thoughts kept drifting back home—to the house brimming with children, noise, expectations, and unspoken hierarchies.
Her mother had always favored the boys a bit more—treated their mistakes as mere accidents, their failures as challenges to be tackled, and their disobedience as just "boys being boys."
But her daughters faced a different reality.
There were rules.
There were comparisons.
There was an expectation of perfection.
Her two older sisters were thriving—holding good jobs, sending money home, and carrying the family's pride like trophies.
And then there was her.
The one who dropped out.
The one who lied.
The one labeled "slow," "distracted," "too emotional," "too stubborn."
Every time she imagined her mother's reaction upon learning the truth, her stomach twisted painfully.
They will disown me.
That thought had whispered through her mind so often it became an ever-present shadow.
But today… she was determined to confront it.
---
During her break, she texted Khalid.
Arriella:
I'll tell them. Once I finish work.
He called immediately.
"You sure?" he asked gently.
"No," she admitted softly. "But I'm going to do it anyway."
A moment of silence passed. Then he said, "I'm proud of you."
She managed a weak smile. "I need to gather a few things first."
"What things?" he inquired.
"Money," she replied quietly. "If they decide to kick me out… I want to be able to stand on my own."
It wasn't a dramatic thought; it was her reality.
For weeks, she had been saving every spare naira—skipping treats, taking on extra hours, keeping her head down and her heart steady.
And finally—
she had enough to return to school.
Enough to restart her registration, pay for transportation, buy books.
She wouldn't be going home empty-handed or empty-minded.
She was heading home with a plan.
A future.
A strength she hadn't possessed months ago.
"You're stronger than you realize," Khalid said. "And even if they get upset, remember, you're not failing. You're taking charge of your life."
Her eyes softened.
"Thank you."
"I'll stay on the phone until you reach home," he promised. "Just tap me when you get to the gate."
She chuckled lightly. "You're joking."
"I'm completely serious. If I could, I'd follow you inside."
She shook her head, smiling despite the weight of her anxiety.
---
When she finished work, she counted her savings once more. Neat bundles. Hard-earned. Proof that she wasn't useless. Proof that even when life knocked her down, she could rise again.
She tucked the money into her bag.
Then she took a deep breath.
This was it.
She walked toward the bus stop, her heart pounding but steady.
Her fears whispered:
They don't love you enough.
They will choose your brothers over you.
They will throw you out.
You are the disappointment.
But another voice—softer, steadier, warm—cut through the noise.
Khalid's voice.
"You deserve kindness."
"You're not a failure."
"I'm not going anywhere."
And for the first time in a long while, she walked home not as the broken girl hiding her mistakes…
but as a young woman ready to face the truth,
no matter how painful it might be.
Because carrying the secret alone was more painful than she could bear.
And she was done hurting herself.
Tonight, she would share everything.