ENTRY 15
ABBY:
Before I get to what happened eleven years later, I remember a moment from just a week after the sit-down with both sets of parents—shortly after the baby’s christening. Uncle had changed. He still did his duty as a father, but there was something distant about him, like a man going through the motions, carrying a weight only he could feel.
One afternoon, Aunty called me into her room. She was sitting at her dressing table, staring into the mirror like she was searching for something lost.
“Abby,” she said slowly, “do you ever think about what kind of woman you want to be?”
I froze. That wasn’t the kind of question she usually asked. Normally, it was something like ‘Have you swept the parlour?’ or ‘Why is there no salt in the stew?’ But this—this was different.
I nodded and replied, “Yes, I think about it a lot.”
She sighed and turned to me. “I never wanted to be this woman. The kind who hides. The kind who lies. But life…” she trailed off, then added softly, “You have a chance to be better than me, Abby. Don’t waste it.”
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to ask why she was telling me this now. But another part of me—the part still just a girl pretending to be grown—wanted to hug her. I didn’t. I just stood there, quietly.
But maybe I should have thought about it more, because eleven years later, it all came back.
I remember the day clearly—it was unforgettable. I was about to turn 24 the next day. My boyfriend at the time was sitting next to me at the airport. We were flying to Egypt for a birthday weekend getaway when her call came through.
I was excited. I thought maybe she wanted to wish me a happy birthday—we hadn’t spoken in a while. I smiled, put the phone on speaker and said, “Hello, Aunty!”
But her voice was cold, and her words hit me like ice.
“Abby,” she said, “you destroyed my life. Why didn’t you just tell the truth that day?”
I blinked, confused.
“Uncle just won the American lottery. And on the immigration form, he wrote that he had three biological children. The questions were specific—they asked if any of them were stepchildren. He said no.”
She paused. Her breathing got heavier.
“DNA tests were done. The truth came out. We all got our visas. But Steven has been denied.”
My heart sank.
“Abby, why? You ruined my life…”
Hmmm…
CHRIS:
Edward was the older brother of my childhood friend—the one who drowned. I told you about him back in Entry 1. Edward and I stayed close, and over the years, we became best friends. He always had my back.
Just before our university graduation, Edward said something to me that I’ll never forget.
“Chris, you know we’ve always said we won’t just be rich—we’ll be very wealthy. I’ve found something that will guide us.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“There’s this prophet,” he replied. “He’s blind. He holds your hand, reads your palm, and tells you exactly what your destiny is. No guesswork. Just clarity.”
Before he could finish, I interrupted, “Edward, you’ve come again with one of your made-up stories. Who but God can see our destinies?”
Ed just laughed. “Bro, forget that. This prophet’s helped loads of people. I’m not saying he’ll make us rich, but his guidance will help us find our path—no more wasting time chasing shadows. What harm could it do?”
That night, lying in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking. Maybe Ed had a point. People spend years trying their hand at everything and still never find the thing meant for them. What if there really was a way to know?
Still, I wanted proof.
Ed said he’d introduce me to someone the prophet had read for—someone who followed the path and, barely six years later, was now rich beyond belief.
Hmmm…
