The Perfect Son

The apartment felt emptier than Damilola had ever known.

Fiyin’s slippers were still by the bedroom door. Her favourite mug sat beside the sink with the lipstick stain she always promised to wash off. The lavender scent of her body lotion lingered in the room, refusing to leave, almost as if the house itself was waiting for her to come back.

But she wasn’t coming back.

At least, not today.

Damilola picked up the wedding ring she had left on the centre table. It suddenly felt heavier than gold.

“Mummy…” he called quietly.

Mama Bose walked into the sitting room carrying two cups of tea.

“Don’t worry yourself too much. She’ll calm down and return.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he kept staring at the ring.

“What if she doesn’t?”

Mama Bose sighed.

“If every woman left because of small misunderstanding, there would be no marriages in Nigeria.”

Damilola wanted to believe her.

He always had.

…

Growing up in Mushin wasn’t easy.

His father died when he was nine.

One moment, they were a family of three. The next, it was just him and his mother struggling to survive.

He still remembered the night they returned from the burial.

The house was filled with relatives discussing who would take what.

His father’s younger brother wanted the television.

Another uncle insisted they should sell the house.

Someone even suggested Mama Bose remarry immediately.

Nobody asked what she wanted.

That night, after everyone had gone, Damilola woke up to the sound of quiet crying.

He walked into the sitting room.

His mother was kneeling beside the old sofa, praying.

“God… I don’t know how I’ll raise this boy alone. But don’t let him suffer because his father is gone.”

She didn’t know he was listening.

From that day, something changed inside him.

He made himself a promise.

No matter what happened, he would never abandon his mother.

Never.

…

Years later, that promise became the foundation of his life.

While his classmates spent their allowance on parties, Damilola saved money to help with rent.

When he got his first salary, he bought his mother a refrigerator before buying himself a new phone.

When colleagues laughed at him for refusing transfers abroad, he smiled and said, “Home is where I’m needed.”

People admired him.

Church members praised him.

Neighbours pointed at him whenever they wanted to lecture their own children.

“Be like Damilola.”

“The boy has values.”

“He has not forgotten his mother.”

Each compliment made Mama Bose proud.

Each compliment made Damilola feel he was doing the right thing.

He never imagined that the same loyalty people celebrated would one day threaten his marriage.

…

At her parents’ house in Surulere, Fiyin sat quietly on the edge of the guest bed.

Her mother, Mrs. Adebayo, placed a tray of food beside her.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need strength.”

Fiyin forced a smile.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

There was no judgment in her mother’s voice.

Only concern.

“I kept telling myself things would change,” Fiyin whispered.

“They usually don’t.”

“I didn’t want to give up.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t competing with his mother.”

Mrs. Adebayo reached for her daughter’s hand.

“You shouldn’t have to compete at all.”

That single sentence broke whatever strength Fiyin had left.

She burst into tears.

Not loud tears.

The quiet kind.

The kind that came after months of pretending everything was okay.

…

That evening, Damilola drove to his friend Kunle’s office.

Kunle had known him since university.

The moment he saw Damilola’s face, he frowned.

“Wetin happen to you?”

“Fiyin left.”

Kunle sat upright.

“What?”

“She packed her things.”

“For real?”

Damilola nodded.

Kunle stayed silent for a few seconds.

Then he asked the one question Damilola wasn’t prepared for.

“Why?”

“My wife and my mum had another misunderstanding.”

“And?”

“I defended my mother.”

Kunle leaned back slowly.

“Dami… answer me honestly.”

“I’m listening.”

“How many times have you defended your wife?”

Damilola opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Kunle wasn’t trying to insult him.

He genuinely wanted an answer.

“I…”

“You can’t remember, abi?”

Damilola looked away.

“I was only trying to keep peace.”

Kunle sighed.

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were trying to avoid disappointing your mother.”

The words stung.

“She’s my mother.”

“I know.”

“She sacrificed everything for me.”

“I know.”

“But Fiyin is your wife.”

Silence.

Kunle continued.

“A good husband doesn’t stop being a good son.”

Damilola rubbed his forehead.

“So what should I have done?”

“You should have stopped making your wife feel like a visitor in her own marriage.”

Those words followed him all the way home.

…

When Damilola entered the house that night, Mama Bose was watching a television sermon.

She muted it as soon as she saw him.

“Did you go after her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She refused to come back.”

Mama Bose clicked her tongue.

“Leave her. She’ll return when she gets tired.”

Damilola nodded absent-mindedly.

As he walked toward the bedroom, he noticed something on the bookshelf.

A dusty brown envelope.

He had never seen it before.

It had his late father’s handwriting.

Across the front were just six words.

For Damilola… when the time is right.

His heartbeat quickened.

He looked toward the sitting room.

Mama Bose was still watching television.

Slowly, he reached for the envelope.

Just as his fingers touched it…

“Milo!”

He froze.

His mother was standing behind him.

Her face had suddenly lost all colour.

“What are you doing with that envelope?”

For the first time in his life…

Damilola saw fear in his mother’s eyes.

To be continued…

Engagement Question: Do you think Damilola’s loyalty to his mother is admirable, or has it crossed the line into hurting his marriage?