Ada and Chuka built a life brick by brick. They worked long hours, skipped holidays, and saved every spare naira to give their three children a future brighter than their own. The house rang with laughter, music, and the soft clink of dinner plates but rarely gratitude.

As the years passed, the children drifted into worlds of their own. Nkem chased parties instead of purpose. Ifeanyi moved from job to job, never settling, always certain time would wait. Little Tolu, no longer little, ignored every call, his phone forever “on silent.”

Ada’s gentle warnings and Chuka’s firm talks dissolved like mist. “We’ll figure it out,” the children always said, smiling as if life were endless.

Then the calendar turned faster. Chuka’s hair silvered, Ada’s hands ached, and the once bustling house grew quiet. Birthdays came with hurried texts. Visits became excuses.

One Harmattan evening, the children finally returned together for a reason none of them could avoid. The living room smelled of candles and antiseptic. Chuka lay still, his heartbeat slowed to a fading drum.

Only then did Nkem notice the cracked tiles they never helped repair. Ifeanyi saw the unpaid hospital bills. Tolu held his father’s cold hand and felt the weight of years unsaid.

Their eyes met across the silent room, three reflections of regret. All the time they thought remained had already vanished. Ada’s soft voice broke the stillness: “Your father’s only wish was for you to love each other as much as he loved you.”

Tears fell, late but real. The lesson had arrived, but the moment to share it with him was gone forever.