Chapter 9 #2
I had miscarried five times during my marriage to Kojo.
Five losses that carved holes I learned to hide behind meetings, empire building and the kind of confidence that made people forget I ever suffered at all.
Each time I thought I would carry a child to full term, I imagined what it would feel like to have a little one fall asleep in my arms. Each time my body failed me, I found another way to bury the disappointment beneath another project, another business deal or another extension of control.
I used to imagine what life would have looked like if even one of those pregnancies had made it past the first trimester.
Kojo and I always planned for a big family, and I carried those dreams close to my heart in the early years of our marriage.
We wanted at least five children, a full house, little ones running through the halls, laughter echoing off the walls, and a future built on more than just the empire we created.
But each pregnancy ended the same way. Each time I felt a spark of hope, it slipped right out of my reach before I could even prepare myself.
By the time I became pregnant with Pressure, I could barely breathe from the fear of losing him.
I carried him with both hands in my stomach every night, praying he would stay with me.
I barely slept. I barely spoke. I clung to him as if holding on tight enough would keep him alive.
When he was finally born, healthy and beautiful and loud enough to let the world know he had arrived, I held him against my chest for hours because I could not convince myself he was really here.
Yet as much as I adored him, I could never bring myself to try again.
I told the world I was focused on my businesses and my duties, but the truth was far more painful.
I was afraid my body would fail me again.
I was afraid I would give Kojo another reason to look at me with quiet disappointment even though he never said a word to make me feel that way.
I was afraid that another loss would shatter whatever pieces of me I had managed to put back together.
So life moved forward with only one child in our home, and I buried the desire for more somewhere deep inside myself.
I convinced everyone around me that I was whole, yet there was always a part of me that felt unfinished.
I had kept those memories tucked behind the part of my mind where I kept the darkest moments of my life.
I learned how to smile through it, how to stand tall even when my stomach felt hollow, and how to reassure my husband that I was fine even when my heart felt like it had shattered piece by piece.
Holding Preslan had awakened pieces of me I thought I had buried forever. The ache, the longing and the quiet questions I used to ask myself about whether my bloodline was strong enough or whether I had been chosen to carry legacies that my body refused to protect.
I placed the empty bowl aside and lifted him from his seat. He rested his cheek against my shoulder with a tiny sigh that made me close my eyes for a moment. I rubbed his back and let my cheek rest against his curls as his arms wrapped around my neck.
“You are my calm,” I whispered into the soft hair on his head.
The nanny approached quietly, her steps light.
She carried the towel and the little bathing pan we used to wash him in this room.
I gave a small nod and she prepared everything without a single word.
I lowered him gently into the warm water and held him steady while the nanny washed him.
He splashed and giggled, and I allowed myself to smile because joy was rare these days and I wanted to enjoy every bit of it.
Once he was clean, the nanny wrapped him in a soft cotton towel and dried him carefully. She dressed him in a fresh outfit that smelled of lavender and warm fabric, then handed him back to me. He curled into my arms again, already drifting toward sleep.
I carried him toward the rocking chair near the window and settled into it. His body fit against me as if he had always belonged here. His tiny fingers closed around the front of my dress and held on with surprising strength. I rocked gently, listening to his breath while his eyelids grew heavier.
I kissed the top of his head and let my fingers brush his cheek. The room was quiet and calm and filled with the soft clicking sound of the rocking chair. That was how Kojo found us.
I heard the door open but did not turn right away.
I felt him before I saw him because Kojo always carried a presence that shifted the air around him.
When he stepped into the room, the light from the hallway touched his face, and I looked up to see him watching me with those dark, steady eyes that had anchored me for decades.
He walked toward me slowly, not wanting to disturb the baby. When he reached me, he leaned down and kissed my lips. The kiss was warm and full of the kind of love only a husband could give after surviving storms with his wife.
He kneeled beside the rocking chair and placed one hand on my knee and the other on the baby’s back. He looked at him for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to me.
“Abeni,” he said, his voice deep and cautionary, “we need to talk about this.”
I stroked Preslan’s hair with one hand and met my husband’s eyes. “I know.”
“You told me we would find a home for him,” he reminded me, his tone gentle but firm. “You told me this would not go on longer than a few weeks.”
“I remember,” I said softly.
He looked around the room, taking in the bottle warming station, the folded blankets, the baby monitor and the toys in a small basket. “Abeni, this is not a temporary arrangement. You have made a nursery in an entirely separate wing of the house.”
I lowered my eyes, tracing the shape of Preslan’s cheek with my fingertip. “I have been looking for a home for him,” I said. “I truly have. I simply have not found anyone who will love him the way he deserves to be loved.”
Kojo sighed and rested his forehead against my thigh. His hands were warm where they held me. “My love, he is not ours.”
My heart pulled tight, but I kept my voice gentle. “He feels like mine.”
“That is the part that worries me,” Kojo said. “You have carried this longer than you should have. I know why you feel this connection, and I know what this brings up for you, but we cannot allow your pain to guide decisions that affect everyone.”
I swallowed and looked down at my husband, the man who had held me through every loss and every tear I refused to cry in public.
“I thought I could give him away,” I admitted.
“I truly did. I thought I could detach myself from him after a few weeks. Yet every time I hold him, I feel something I have not felt in a very long time. Something that I cannot explain without sounding unbalanced.”
Kojo lifted his head and reached up to cup my cheek. “You are not unbalanced,” he said softly. “You are a mother who has lost more than she ever deserved to lose. But you have to move on, baby. You cannot keep him, Abeni. And that’s final.”
“He needs me,” I said.
“He needed safety,” Kojo corrected. “And you gave him that. Now he needs a life he can call his own. And you need peace. Not another secret you can’t manage.”
I looked down at the sleeping baby and felt a tear sting the corner of my eye. I blinked it away before it could fall. “What if I cannot let him go?”
“You can,” Kojo said gently. “Because you have let go before, even when it broke you. And you have me. You have grandchildren. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
His words wrapped around me the way his arms always had.
I nodded slowly, though my heart ached. “I will try.”
Kojo kissed my hand. “No. You will do this. This isn’t optional, Abeni.”
Preslan stirred slightly and nestled closer against me. I rocked him again and stared at his sweet face.
Even though my husband had given me orders I knew I couldn’t ignore, I did not know if my heart would ever let this child go.