The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until the soft sound of footsteps came from the stairs.
“Mommy?” Sahara’s small voice followed, uncertain. “Daddy?”
The sound hit them both at once.
Monique’s breath caught. Clinton stiffened.
For a split second, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, panic flashing between them; the kind that came with realizing their child had heard more than she ever should have.
Sometime later…
Seated on the sofa, clutching a teddy bear, Sahara’s innocent eyes filled with worry darted towards the stairs. Though young, she sensed something big was happening, leaving her nervous and unsettled.
Sahara was accustomed to her father’s absences due to business trips, but this time felt different. The tense atmosphere that accompanied his return was new and frightening.
A short while later, Clinton descended the stairs with a suitcase.
Sahara jumped down from her seat, hope and fear warring in her young heart.
“Daddy?”
“Honey,” Clinton acknowledged, his voice strained.
“Are you leaving again? Didn’t you promise on your last trip that you wouldn’t be gone for long again?” Sahara’s voice quivered with confusion and hurt.
From her position at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, Monique scoffed. She remembered that conversation all too well. They had been happy then, or so she thought. Now, with bitter hindsight, she realized Clinton had likely made that promise knowing his mistress was about to give birth.
Clinton shot Monique an irritated look before taking Sahara’s hand and leading her back to the sofa.
“Honey… there’s something daddy must tell you,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Daddy won’t be living here anymore.”
Sahara stared at him, confusion clouding her little face.
Clinton continued, “Even though mommy and daddy won’t be staying together, I will always love you, okay?”
“Where are you going? I don’t want you to go… please stay,” Sahara pleaded, her voice small and frightened.
“Honey…”
“Mommy misses you so much… I miss you…” she said quietly, tears brimming in her eyes.
“Honey…” Clinton tried again, clearly uncomfortable.
“I don’t want you to go… I want you to stay with mommy,” Sahara insisted, her young mind unable to comprehend the complexity of the situation.
Desperate to change the subject, Clinton reached for his phone. “You can come visit anytime you want… Look,” he showed her a picture. “That’s your brother. You can visit and come play with him, okay?”
Sahara shook her head vehemently. “Please don’t go…”
Just then, Clinton’s phone rang. He answered it, a smile spreading across his face. “Lydia… yeah, I’m done. I’ll be there soon.”
He stood up and grabbed his suitcase. Sahara rushed to him, clinging to his leg. “Please don’t go…” she mumbled through her tears.
“Honey, be a good girl. Daddy has something important to do…” Clinton’s voice held a note of impatience now.
The little girl shook her head, crying harder and refusing to let go. Clinton looked around desperately, his eyes landing on Louise, who pretended to be busy. Finally, his gaze settled on Monique, who returned his look with mocking disdain. He grunted in irritation.
“Be sensible, okay?” he said, prying Sahara’s fingers from his leg with barely concealed frustration.
The scene unfolding before her made Monique’s blood boil. How dare he treat their daughter so callously? How could he be so eager to leave behind the family he once cherished for his new life.
Louise, unable to bear the sight of Sahara’s distress any longer, finally stepped forward. “Come here, sweetheart,” she said gently, reaching for the sobbing child.
As Louise gathered Sahara into her arms, Clinton seized the opportunity to make his exit. He cast one last look at the scene behind him- his tearful daughter, his stone-faced soon-to-be ex-wife, the disapproving housekeeper-before walking out the door without another word.
The sound of the door closing behind Clinton seemed to echo through the house, a final punctuation to the end of their family as they knew it.
Sahara sobbed uncontrollably, the sound of it heavy and painful, far too big for such a small child.
Monique remained at the bar, her knuckles white around her glass, torn between her own pain and the desperate need to comfort her daughter.
꧁━━━━━꧂.꧁━━━━━꧂.꧁━━━━━━꧂
A chill wind whipped through the city streets, gnawing at exposed skin and nipping at the heels of hurried office workers.
Mornings and evenings brought cooler temperatures, prompting office workers to clutch styrofoam cups of steaming coffee as they rushed to their destinations.
Amidst the bundled-up crowd, a woman in beige track shorts and a tee shirt, seemingly impervious to the cold, emerged from a 2000 Atlantic blue Mustang convertible.
Her long, usually intricately braided hair, was flung back in a messy bun, revealing puffy eyes and mascara tracks that painted her face with raccoon like stripes.
Ignoring the curious glances, she headed to the elevator and ascended to the seventh floor’s mother and child wing VIP.
She stopped in front of room 409.
Pushing the door open, she entered a spacious and luxuriously decorated room, resembling a deluxe hotel room.
A petite blonde woman lay on the bed, with her eyes closed.
Her delicate features serene in the soft light. Beside her, nestled in an Ivy Rose crib, a tiny baby, barely three days old, bundled up in blue,slept peacefully, his tiny fists curled into miniature fists.
The visitor stood, observing for a while, then reached in to gently stroked the baby’s face.
The infant stirred, grunting in his sleep. Tears welled up as the woman continued to caress the baby’s cheek.
Unable to resist, she picked up the three-day-old baby and held him close to her; his warmth a stark contrast to the icy storm raging within her.
The baby, startled by the sudden movement, squirmed and cried.
The woman, her voice choked with a cocktail of grief and rage, crooned a lullaby, her fingers gently stroking his cheek.
The blonde woman’s eyes flew open, then widened with fear as they landed on the woman holding her son.
She sat up, her heart thumping wildly.
“Monique!’’ she whispered fearfully, her eyes locked on the baby in the arms of the other woman.
Monique paid her no heed, coaxing the baby back to sleep.
‘’Monique, please…’’
Lydia’s pleas fell on deaf ears as Monique stared coldly.
‘’Monique, please,” Lydia begged, desperation creeping into her voice. “Put the baby down. He has nothing to do with this.”
Monique finally looked up, her eyes glacial. “Is that what you tell yourself to ease the guilt?” she spat, her voice laced with venom.
Lydia’s face paled. “Monique,” she pleaded again, her voice thick with tears. “Put Alex down, please. He’s just a baby.”
Monique flinched. “Alex?” she asked, a flicker of pain crossing her features. “You named him Alexander?”
Lydia nodded, her eyes downcast.
“Who chose that name?” Monique asked, her voice barely a whisper, a tremor of fear laced with a deeper hurt.
In the next second, a brittle laugh escaped Monique’s lips, a hollow sound that echoed in the opulent room.
“Clinton,” she mumbled, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “You are truly cruel.”
The baby, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, started to cry again. Monique, as if suddenly scalded, placed him back in his crib.
Lydia, her fear momentarily forgotten, rushed to her son, cradling him close, her eyes never leaving Monique’s face.
Tears blurred the world around Monique.
Lydia rushed forward, scooped him up and held him close to her with a heavy sigh of relief while eyeing Monique warily.
“Alex,” Monique mumbled, misty eyes fixated on the mother and son. Her gaze, cold and hostile, sent shivers down Lydia’s spine.
“I think you better leave,” Lydia said, forcing the words out.
“Alex, who named him?”
Silence. Lydia’s apologetic eyes told her everything.
Another bitter laugh escaped Monique’s lips. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You both did this on purpose.”
Lydia frowned. “Monique…”
Monique’s body trembled, fury, a coiled viper within. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Don’t even dare.”
Tears glistened on her cheeks as her shoulders slumped. She turned to leave, her purpose for the visit forgotten.
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