Àwọn Àmì-ìwé Tí A Fẹ̀

My name is Evelyn Hart. I am thirty-six years old. Twenty years ago, I was a sixteen-year-old sophomore, standing in the cold November rain with a single suitcase at my feet. My mother stood in the doorway, her face a mask of cold fury as she pointed toward the street. She told me I was dead to them. That very same night, they signed legal documents, formally erasing me from their lives, and any child I might ever have. I kept those papers. I kept everything. For two decades, I simply ceased to