Papa welcomed me warmly. Roland’s three sisters pulled me to the kitchen immediately, chatting and giggling like we were already best friends. Mama served me a second plate of food “for strength,” adjusted my dress, even complimented my smile.

I felt welcomed.

Then, just when the joy in the house had settled like a warm blanket, Mama made a statement that sounded like a joke, a harmless one, or so I thought.

She cupped my face and said:

“My daughter, you’re beautiful. I’m sure you have plenty male children in your womb for my son.”

Everyone laughed. Even I laughed.

She added softly in Igbo: “Nwoke ga-ebu aha anyị.” (A male will carry our name.)

I brushed it off. My mum had three boys first. My sister also had boys first.

So I told myself: “A boy won’t be a problem.”

I didn’t know how wrong I was.

The day I delivered my first baby girl, I saw Mama’s smile freeze.

She didn’t say “congratulations” first.

She said: “Hmm. I hope the next one will be a boy o.”

Her omugwo was… cold. Not rude. Just empty. Not the joyful, lively support she told me she gave her daughters, even when they had girls.

I pretended not to notice, but something inside me cracked.

Before my daughter clocked one, Mama started:

“Rita, don’t waste time. Give my son a boy. Aha ezinụlọ kwesịrị onye ga-eburu ya.” (The family name needs someone to carry it.)

I wanted to rest, but the pressure wouldn’t stop.

At one year six months, I fell pregnant again.

Another girl.

Mama didn’t hide her disappointment. She didn’t do omugwo. She barely visited.

Her silence hurt more than any insult.

For the third pregnancy, I prayed, fasted, sowed seeds, read articles....did everything.

When the scan said boy, Roland danced. Mama treated me like a queen.

But nine months later, I gave birth to another girl.

Mama exploded:

“Ị ga-amụ ụmụ nwanyị ruo mgbe ebighị ebi?! Where is the boy?!” (Will you give birth to girls forever?)

I held my baby and cried quietly. Roland tried to stand with me, but I could feel the confusion growing in him.

Mama’s words were working.

Three weeks later, Mama arrived unannounced.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t greet me.

And she wasn’t alone.

A girl stood behind her, young, quiet, holding a small bag. Something about her presence made my heart drop.

She wasn’t introduced. She didn’t look confused or shy.

No.

She looked like someone who had been briefed… prepared… positioned.

Mama stepped aside and folded her arms.

“Rita, meet the person who will help us solve this boy-child issue once and for all.”

The girl lifted her eyes.

Cold. Bold. Too familiar.

My breath caught.

Because at that moment, I believed Mama knew exactly what she was doing. 

But what chilled my blood wasn’t the girl.

It was what I saw on Mama’s face.

A subtle, satisfied smile, one that told me this was not a plan she just thought of.

It was a plan she had been waiting to execute.

And the girl she brought… she wasn’t just a “helper.”

She was something else. Something I wasn’t ready for.

As the girl stepped forward, my newborn stirred in my arms.

Mama looked at my baby, then at the girl and said something so quietly, so deliberately, that my knees weakened:

“This one will give my son what you cannot… even if it destr0ys you.”

I froze.

Because in her eyes… I saw that she meant every word.

But little did Mama know that the girl she brought would not only end my marriage… she would end Mama herself.

The Bloodline - 1