Àwọn Àmì-ìwé Tí A Fẹ̀

You keep wishing for one more hour. One more conversation. One more chance to protect the person you lost. I didn’t get that chance while Mom was alive. But I got something close. I made sure the loudest lie in the room did not become the final version of her story. My sister thought she had won the day she stood up in church and lifted her hand like grief was just another spotlight. But she forgot something. A performance only works until the recording starts. And that night, it did.