Chapter 40 Ajori
Ajori
As I stood against the wall, arms loosely folded, I glanced around at the sea of faces, watching people move around like we hadn’t just buried a man who felt too big to die.
My father passed away a month after that conversation I had with him in the hospital, a bit longer than any of us expected him to.
Despite his declining health, he had made his wishes clear; he wanted to be home when that final moment arrived, and that’s precisely where he was when he took his last breath.
His funeral was bittersweet, but painful in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I never thought I’d miss, more so, cry over someone I had only known for the short period of time that I had.
Connection, I realized, isn’t measured by how long someone’s been around; it's about the depth and intensity of the relationships you form in the brief moments you share.
In the time I spent with my father, he offered presence and a version of fatherhood that I had long convinced myself I could live without. But truthfully, it only takes a moment of real love to expose a lifetime of what we were missing.
“Ajori, can we talk?” Vanessa’s voice broke through the noise, gentle and tentative.
For a brief moment, I hesitated. I was ready to say no.
Healing doesn’t move just because somebody finally decides to show up, and forgiveness doesn’t come just because someone is ready to apologize.
But then... I heard Kyrin’s voice echoing in my mind.
“Just talk to her, Jo. You don’t have to forgive her today; just don’t shut the door.”
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply before exhaling as I turned to face my mother. “Yeah. We can talk.”
Relief washed over her face so quickly that it almost pained me to witness it.
She nodded, gesturing toward a quieter corner of the venue. In the hush of the corner, we were finally free from prying eyes.
Vanessa clasped her hands together, fidgeting as if unsure what to say.
“I know I’ve said it before,” she began, her voice shaky, “but I’m sorry.”
I opted for silence, allowing her the space to sit in her discomfort.
Sometimes silence makes people say what they really mean.
“I should’ve been better,” she continued, her tone heavy with regret. “Not perfect… but present.” Her voice cracked, revealing the raw emotion beneath her controlled exterior. “I wasn’t any of those things when you… or Kyrin needed me most.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, carving a path down her face as it caught the light.
“And it pains me that I can’t go back and fix that version of me.”
My heart clenched at her words, and I hesitated before posing the question that had weighed on me for years.
“Why didn’t you tell me about my father?” I asked, my chest tightening with the release of pent-up emotions.
Her eyes widened slightly, blinking as if my question had momentarily disarmed her.
“I grew up believing he didn’t want me,” I continued, my voice soft but firm. “That he simply vanished… like I wasn't worthy of staying for. He said he sent money. Did he?”
She nodded slowly; remorse etched deeply into her features.
“Yes… but it stopped. And when it did, I let my own feelings cloud my judgment. I was angry and hurt, believing he disappeared out of spitefulness. I carried that belief for years, until recently, when he revealed the truth... the same truth he shared with you. I made a decision for you based on my own pain. When you became old enough to inquire about your father, I didn’t allow you the room to form your own perspective.
I told you he didn’t want you and allowed you to believe something that wasn’t entirely true… and you carried that for years.”
Her voice broke slightly.
“That wasn’t your burden, but I put it on you anyway… even though I didn’t fully know the truth myself. Your father wasn’t perfect, but he also wasn’t what I made him out to be, either… and that’s something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”
I looked away, grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.
All that anger I held onto all those years suddenly didn’t feel as solid as it once did.
Could I really be mad at her for not knowing what she didn’t know?
For reacting out of hurt?
Because if I were being honest with myself, if the father of my child suddenly disappeared, stopped providing, and stopped being present, I would likely have jumped to similar conclusions.
Silence stretched between us.
Then she spoke more softly.“Ajori, I’m not asking you to excuse me… or even to fully comprehend my actions. I just don’t want you to hate me.”
That word lingered.
Hate.
“You just lost your father,” she continued gently. “Grief has a unique way of either hardening a person or softening them. I don’t want to stand before a version of you that has become hardened by all this pain.”
That was true.
Pain will either build a wall or break one down, and which one you choose changes everything.
I exhaled slowly, finding my voice again. “We’re not going to mend years of damage in a single conversation. Trust doesn’t simply return because an apology is offered; it is rebuilt over time when your actions stop contradicting your words.”
“I understand,” she replied quietly, her eyes searching mine for any sign of concession.
“So we’ll take it slow… real slow,” I emphasized, wanting to make my intentions clear.
She nodded quickly. “I’ll take it slow. Slow still means forward.”
I studied her for a second, then told the truth. “And just so you know, I’m mainly doing this because Kyrin asked me to.”
Vanessa’s expression shifted, disappointment flickering across her face for the briefest instant.
Then I included, “But…”
Her eyes came back to mine.
“I also want my mom back… and I’m tired of pretending like I don’t.”
Quiet tears fell like something in her finally cracked open.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “And I’m not leaving this time.”
I nodded.
Belief was still building. But effort? I could see that. And sometimes that’s where healing starts.
Vanessa wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand, taking a moment to compose herself.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, letting out a soft, shaky sniffle, “but I am absolutely starving.”
To my own surprise, a light chuckle escaped my lips.
“What?” she shrugged. “Grief doesn’t cancel hunger; if anything, it reminds you you’re still alive.”
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, our conversation felt different. Talking to her didn’t feel like something I had to survive; it felt like something I could grow from.