Chapter 41 Chapter Thirty-Eight
Demis Point Of View
I lean my hip against the counter and watch my mother work, the way I have a thousand times and yet never quite enough.
The kitchen smells like onions and bell peppers and the faint sweetness of tomatoes simmering down into something nice.
"COME ON, THAT WAS A HOLD" my dad roared from the living room, it was then followed immediately by Alex's voice, just a half-second later and a whole octave higher.
"That ref is freaking BLIND"
Mom doesn't even flinch. She keeps chopping, her knife tapping out a steady rhythm against the cutting board.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
It's almost like a heartbeat. Mine starts to match it before I realize it.
It warmed my heart to see and hear Alex with my father. For some reason I felt warm and relieved.
“Let them yell” she says without looking up. "It helps them feel useful" she said laughing which made me try to hide my laugh.
I grin and reach for the garlic. "You say that every time dad watches a game"
"And every time it's true, is it not?" She slides the chopped onions into a pan with a practiced flick of her wrist.
The sizzle is immediate and loud, like applause.
Steam curls upward, fogging the edge of her glasses.
She nudges them back up her nose with the back of her hand.
“I’m not answering that” I laughed alongside my mother.
I start peeling the garlic, pressing each clove under the flat of the knife until it pops free of its skin.
The smell sticks to my fingers right and I don't mind it at all-I lowkey love the smell of garlics-.
There's something grounding about it, about being needed and I love having one on one moments with my mother.
Another shout erupts from the living room. This one sounds triumphant, I snuck my head into the living room to see what was going on.
"YES!” Alex yells. “That's what I'm talking freaking talking about”
Dad whoops, a deep, joyful sound. Mom rolls her eyes.
"See?" she says. “Useful, just like I said”
I laugh, and the sound settles into the kitchen like it belongs there.
I've always liked being in the kitchen with her.
Even when I was little and all I could do was stand on a chair and stir things that didn't need stirring, she made space for me.
She still does. She slides a bowl closer so I can drop the garlic in, hands me a towel when she sees me wipe my fingers on my jeans out of habit.
"Wash your hands Demilade" she says, not unkindly.
"Yes ma, sorry ma" I apologized
The water runs warm, and I scrub until the smell fades a little, though it never really goes away.
I glance out the window while I dry my hands. The backyard looks smaller than it used to, or maybe I've just gotten bigger.
My dad had found a new hobby of chopping wood, so our backyard was scattered with woods.
Mom follows my gaze. "You remember when you would always sit outside there when we first got here?" she asks.
“yeah, I felt so out of place and i really missed home” I say a bit sadly. “When next are we visiting Nigeria?, I miss Temi, Daniel, Ayra, Junior and Angel” I really did miss my siblings.
Though we mostly video chat each other, it’s not the same.
She gives me a look, I knew she felt bad that we’re all separated but I know it’s not her fault. Everyone has their own life’s now.
“They will be coming for your graduation, so give it a few more months” she said in a motherly way which I won’t lie calmed me down a bit.
“I hope they all make it”
“They will my love” she said as she kissed my forehead.
“You’re your siblings baby” she said laughing making me chuckle a bit.
“Yes now, I miss when they would buy me things without me asking, now that we’re apart, it’s a bit hard to ask for things” I pouted, my mother just playfully smacked my cheeks.
“Last born” she shook her head.
I smile, because she's smiling, ever since we moved here she has been a bit moody, I knew she was finding it hard to live here but for the sake of my father and I, she was trying her best.
She hands me a carrot and a peeler.
"Here. Your turn."
I peel carefully. The motion is simple, repetitive, and it frees my mind to wander.
To the sound of the game in the other room, the rhythm of the commentators rising and falling.
To Alex's laugh, which was very loud and unfiltered and exactly the same as it's been since the day I first met him.
To my dad's running commentary, half analysis and half superstition-he’s so delusional”
"They need to run it on second down," he says, as if the players can hear him. "You can't keep throwing it like that."
"They can hear you, Mr. D," Alex says. "They're definitely taking notes."
Mom snorts softly. "If only."
She tastes the sauce, closes her eyes for a second, then adds a pinch of salt.
I watch her hands, the way they move without hesitation.
There's comfort in that certainty. Her food is literally the best.
"Alex staying for dinner?" she asks my best friend who has been giving my father his attention since I got back.
"Yeah" he said. "I texted my mom. She said as long as he brings her leftovers."
"Smart woman."
Another cheer explodes from the living room, followed by a groan. The emotional whiplash is impressive.
I line the peeled carrots up and start chopping, trying to mimic Mom's technique.
My cuts are uneven, but she doesn't comment. She never does unless I'm about to lose a finger.
"You've been quiet lately," she says after a moment.
I pause, knife hovering. "Have I?"
She nods. "A little. Not in a bad way. Just... thoughtful."
I shrug and resume chopping. "Just thinking about stuff."
"Stuff," she repeats, gentle.
"School. Work. Life." I listed, giving her a little sheepish smile. "You know. Stuff."
She hums, accepting that for now. She always knows when to press and when to let things breathe. It's one of her superpowers.
"Well," she says, "thinking is allowed. Just don't forget to eat and never worry too much"
I laugh. "I won't."
The sauce bubbles softly, thickening.
The oven clicks as it preheats. The kitchen fills with layers of sound and smell and warmth, and I feel myself relax into it, like sinking into a well-worn couch.
When I was younger, I used to think the most important moments were loud. Big. That they announced themselves with fireworks or applause.
Now I'm not so sure. Now I think they might sound more like this: a knife on a cutting board, a radio playing something familiar, the distant echo of laughter and shouting from the next room.
"Demi!" Dad yells out for me. "Did you see that catch?"
"Kind of busy" I yell back.
"Tell him to rewind it" Alex adds.
Mom points her knife at me. "Do not leave me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
She smiles, and there's a softness in her eyes that makes my chest ache in a good way.
We work side by side for a while without talking, the silence comfortable. When the vegetables are done, she lets me stir the pot, guiding my hand when I go too fast.
"Slow," she says. "Let it come together."
I do, and the sauce smooths out, glossy and perfect.
"That's it," she says. "You've got it."
I feel absurdly proud.
By the time we're setting the table, the game is nearing the end.
The living room is a mess of empty soda cans and chip crumbs, and Dad and Alex look like they've been through something together.
Their faces are flushed, their voices hoarse.
I can practically hear my father let out a triumphant roar, pumping his fist in the air.
“That's it, boys, That's the spirit” he exclaimed, beaming with pride. “We're back in the game”
“We did it, We fucking did it” my dad exclaimed, his eyes shining with pride. “What a game”
“That was amazing, I can't believe we won” i exclaimed, my voice filled with joy.
My mother joined in the jubilation, laughing and clapping along with us, before she called us for dinner
"Dinner" Mom calls.
They appear instantly, like she's summoned them by magic.
"Smells amazing," Alex says, already reaching for a spoon.
Mom swats his hand away. "Table."
He grins and obeys.
We sit, pass dishes, fill plates.
The noise level rises again, but it's different now full, satisfied.
Dad rehashes the best plays, Alex argues the worst calls, Mom listens and shakes her head, amused. I eat and watch them, feeling something settle deep inside me.
When I help with the dishes later, the sun has dipped low, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks. Mom hands me a towel.
"Thank you," she says.
"For what?"
"For being here."
I swallow, nod. "Always."
And I mean it.