Episode 3

Timothy sat at the dining table, absentmindedly stirring his tea, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere beyond the window. Across from him, Tari studied him closely, her chin resting on her hand. She hadn’t said much since she joined him, but his gloomy demeanor wasn’t something she could overlook.

 

“For someone who’s usually calm and peaceful,” she finally said, breaking the silence, “you’ve been looking awfully troubled. What’s wrong?”

 

Timothy didn’t look up. “Nothing’s wrong.”

 

Tari frowned. “I’m not blind, you know. Something’s eating at you, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

 

He sighed and finally glanced at her. “I said I’m fine, Tari. Believe me.”

 

She raised her brows but didn’t push further. Instead, she picked up her glass of water and took a sip. “Okay. But I don’t like this version of you. You’ve been moping around the house all week.”

 

Timothy set his spoon down, rubbing his temples. “I’m not moping.”

 

Tari let out a small laugh. “If you say so.” She tilted her head, her voice softening. “Why don’t we go out? Just a quick drive to clear your head.”

 

Timothy hesitated. “Where?”

 

“Somewhere quiet and fancy, just to eat. You could use a change of environment.”

 

He looked at her for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Fine.”

 

“Good,” Tari said with a small smile as she rose from the table. “Go and change. We’ll leave in ten minutes.”

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

True to her word, Tari was ready and waiting at the car when Timothy stepped out, dressed casually but neatly, his usual reserved demeanor firmly in place. He slid into the passenger seat, and she started the engine without a word.

 

The drive was peaceful, with only the sound of the car’s hum and the occasional honk breaking the silence. Tari made small talk about random topics; her favorite podcast, a funny story she heard at work, but Timothy only offered polite responses, his thoughts elsewhere.

 

Just as the tension in the car began to ease, Tari slowed down, turning onto a quiet residential street. Timothy sat up, his brows knitting together.

 

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

 

Tari pulled up in front of a duplex and honked the horn. “We’re picking Maryann.”

 

Timothy frowned. “You’re what?”

 

“She’s coming with us,” Tari said lightly, avoiding his gaze.

 

Timothy’s voice dropped. “You said this was going to be a quiet outing.”

 

“Maryann is practically family,” Tari replied with a shrug. “She’s not going to disturb us.”

 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If this was about brunch with Maryann, you should’ve left me out of it.”

 

Tari glanced at him, her expression softening. “I just wanted to cheer you up. I thought maybe having someone else around would help. I’m sorry if it’s a bad idea.”

 

Timothy leaned back against the seat, exhaling slowly. “Never mind. It’s fine.”

 

In less than two minutes, Maryann appeared, a bright smile on her face as she walked toward the car. She climbed into the back seat, her energy filling the small space instantly.

 

“Timothy!” she exclaimed. “The one and only. How are you?”

 

Timothy gave her a small, shy smile. “I’m fine, Maryann.”

 

“Good,” she said with a playful grin. “You know, you’re the finest man I’ve ever met in my life.”

 

Timothy’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he glanced out the window. “Maryann, you’re always hyping me.”

 

“For good reason!” she replied. “Have you looked at yourself? Even angels must be jealous.”

 

“Maryann,” Tari cut in, shaking her head, “must you always be this dramatic?”

 

Maryann leaned forward, resting her chin on the back of Timothy’s seat. “Leave me alone. I’m just telling the truth.”

 

Timothy chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

The restaurant Tari picked was cozy and tucked away, the warm lighting and quiet hum of conversations providing the perfect atmosphere. They were ushered to a table by a cheerful waiter who handed out menus before stepping away.

 

“Let’s see,” Tari said, scanning the options. “What are we having?”

 

Maryann tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Something light. Maybe pasta.”

 

Timothy glanced at the menu briefly. “Grilled fish and rice for me.”

 

The waiter returned with their orders, one after the other. Maryann, who had picked a creamy pasta dish, leaned back in her chair and stretched. “This place is nice. I’ll have to remember it for future dates.”

 

“Maryann, you don’t even have prospects,” Tari teased, rolling her eyes.

 

Maryann smirked. “It’s called being prepared.”

 

As the waiter left, Maryann turned to Tari. “By the way, are we going for the Deji’s launch event tomorrow evening?”

 

“Yes,” Tari replied, sipping her water.

 

“Have you booked a makeup artist yet?”

 

Tari shook her head, trying to avoid a conversation that could bring up Amarachi. “I haven’t thought about that. Let’s not talk about it here though.”

 

“Why not now?” Maryann pressed. “What about that girl from the other day? Amara, right? Let’s book her again.”

 

Tari stiffened slightly, glancing at Timothy, whose expression remained neutral. “We’ll talk about it later.”

 

Maryann ignored her. “I mean, it may not even be a good idea. She mentioned her daughter last time. She might not have the time since it is a Sunday.”

 

Timothy, who had been silent until now, suddenly looked up. “She has a daughter?”

 

Maryann nodded. “Oh yes. She mentioned it the last time we used her. Such a mum; she couldn’t wait to get back home to her little girl.”

 

Tari’s eyes darted toward Timothy, her voice firm. “Maryann, let’s not talk about this here.”

 

But Timothy leaned forward slightly, his tone serious. “I want to know. She has a daughter?”

 

“Yes,” Maryann said simply. “She told us.”

 

Timothy hesitated, his voice dropping. “Is she married?”

 

Tari quickly interjected. “We don’t know. She didn’t say.”

 

But Maryann shrugged, her tone casual. “Of course, she’s married. A girl like that, with a daughter? She must be.”

 

Timothy leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Okay,” he said softly.

 

The table fell into an awkward silence. Tari glanced at Timothy, her heart sinking at the look on his face. She tried to steer the conversation to lighter topics, but Timothy’s responses were distant, his mind clearly elsewhere.

 

As they finished their meal and prepared to leave, Maryann made another joke about Timothy’s shyness, but he only smiled faintly. Tari shot her a warning look, but Maryann didn’t notice.

 

When they got back into the car, Timothy leaned his head against the window, watching the lights of the city blur past. His heart felt heavy, but he stayed quiet, lost in thought.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

As soon as they pulled up to the house, Timothy opened the car door and stepped out, barely waiting for Tari to park properly. He was quiet, deep in thought, as he walked toward the front door. Tari followed a few steps behind, her energy still bright despite the tension that had hung in the air during their time out.

 

Inside, their mother appeared almost instantly, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Ah, you people went out and didn’t invite me,” she said with mock indignation. “It’s always the two of you. Only you and your sister. Do I not exist in this house?”

 

Timothy smiled faintly, leaning down to give her a hug. “Mummy, don’t worry. I’ll take you out next time.”

 

The woman pulled back, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Eh, Timothy, I don’t even want you to take me out. It’s not me you should be spending time with.”

 

Timothy straightened, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

 

“Is it only your sister that should be the most important woman in your life?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or me? Eh? When are you going to take a proper girl out? When will we start planning a wedding in this house?”

 

“Mummy, please,” Timothy said with a sigh, shaking his head. “Let’s not do this today. I’m not in the mood.”

 

“Not in the mood for what?” she pressed, following him as he began to edge toward the hallway. “Timothy, you’re not getting any younger. You’re always singing, always working. What about marriage? Hmm?”

 

Before Timothy could reply, Tari stepped in, offering their mother a sly wink. The silent exchange was enough to calm the older woman, who threw up her hands dramatically. “Fine, fine,” she said, turning away. “I’ve said my own.”

 

Timothy caught the wink and rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You two are impossible,” he muttered as he made his way to the studio.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

The studio welcomed Timothy with its familiar stillness, a quiet sanctuary from the outside world. He closed the door behind him and exhaled deeply, his shoulders finally relaxing. The walls, lined with guitars, microphones, and recording equipment, seemed to absorb his tension as he moved toward the centre of the room.

 

He picked up his favorite guitar, running his fingers over the polished wood before strumming softly. The notes filled the space, resonating with a quiet warmth. He began to hum, his voice carrying a melody that was as much a prayer as it was a song.

 

“Lord, my eyes are fixed on You,  

No turning back, my heart is true…”

 

The words spilled out naturally, but there was a weight in his chest that refused to lift. He set the guitar down and ran a hand over his face. “No,” he said aloud, his voice firm. “I’m not doing this.”

 

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I made a promise to You. My journey with You matters more. She chose her path, and I’ve chosen mine. I’m staying focused on what You’ve called me to do.”

 

But the memories of Amara lingered, stubborn and unshakable. He sighed deeply, reaching for his laptop and opening his blog. Writing had always been a way to quiet his thoughts, to refocus on what mattered most.

 

His latest post, The Heart of Worship: Beyond Performance, had drawn dozens of comments. Timothy scrolled through them absently, his eyes scanning the words of encouragement, questions, and shared experiences. One comment, however, made him pause.

 

It was an anonymous comment:  

“I want to worship. I want to believe in God, because you must believe in something, right? But how do you truly worship a God you can’t see? I’m confused. I pray, I sing, but I don’t know if He’s even there. Is there really a God?”

 

Timothy stared at the screen, the raw vulnerability in the words pulling at his heart. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure of how to respond. But then the Holy Spirit nudged him gently. Answer.

 

He placed his hands on the keyboard, letting the Spirit guide his words:  

“Thank you for sharing your heart. Knowing God exists begins with faith. Faith is believing in what we cannot see but trust to be true. When we hold on to that faith, we start to have encounters—moments when we feel His presence, hear His voice, or see His hand at work in our lives.  

 

But true worship isn’t just about seeing or feeling God. It’s about a relationship. We don’t come to God for what He can give us; we come to Him because of who He is. A loving Father. A faithful Creator. A Friend who never leaves.  

 

Keep seeking Him with an open heart, not for answers, but for connection. The more you seek, the more you’ll find. And one day, you’ll look back and realise He was there all along.”

 

He hit Post and leaned back, exhaling softly. The weight on his chest lifted slightly, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Picking up his guitar again, he strummed gently, singing under his breath:

 

“Faithful God, my soul delights in You,  

You are here, always true…”

 

The music filled the room, and Timothy closed his eyes, letting the melody carry him. But just as he began to lose himself in the worship, a faint ding pulled him back. His phone lit up on the table, the screen displaying a notification.

 

He hesitated for a moment before reaching for it. The message was from Amara.

 

Hi, Timothy. I’m very sorry that I ghosted you. I didn’t reply to your messages, and I ended the call because I didn’t know how to face you. Breaking up with you was the biggest regret of my life, and I’ve carried the guilt for years. I know it’s unfair to reach out now, but I just want to apologise. Please forgive me.

 

Timothy stared at the message, his heart tightening. He set the guitar aside and exhaled deeply, reading the words again and again.

 

“She’s apologising… after twelve years,” he murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his thoughts swirling.

 

For a moment, he almost didn’t respond. But he knew that he needed to do so. He began to type:

 

“Hi, Amara. I forgave you years ago. Yes, you broke my heart, but I’ve made peace with it. I’m glad you’re doing well with your family—your husband and your daughter. I pray that God continues to bless your journey. Take care.”

 

He hit send, the finality of the words settling over him like a quiet wave. For the first time in days, he felt a sense of release, as though a heavy door had finally closed.

 

Timothy set the phone down and picked up his guitar once more, strumming gently as he sang under his breath:

 

“You are faithful, Lord,  

My heart belongs to You…”

 

————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Amara carefully placed the last makeup brush in the drying rack, her fingers still damp from the soapy water. She had been cleaning her makeup tools for over an hour, an unusual delay for her. Normally, she cleaned everything the same night she worked—clean brushes and tools were part of her professionalism. But last night was different. She had been too tired after the job, her feet aching from standing all day. And then there was Ziora, coughing through the night. Her focus had been on her daughter, ensuring she was comfortable, and the brushes had been forgotten.

 

This morning had started lazily. With Ziora sleeping in, Amara had allowed herself the rare luxury of staying in bed longer than usual. Yet even as she rested, her mind had been restless. All week, she had found herself thinking about Timothy. Not just thinking – listening. She had played his songs on repeat, absorbing every lyric, every melody. His voice had this way of making worship feel alive, like he was singing to someone he truly knew.

 

Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her. She had checked his social media pages, scrolling through comments that were filled with admiration and love. Who wouldn’t love him? she thought bitterly. He seemed to have it all together—a thriving career, a heart on fire for God, and a fanbase that adored him.

 

It was during one of these social media deep dives that she stumbled upon his blog. She hadn’t known he wrote. The posts were beautifully written, filled with wisdom and insight into worship and faith. One post in particular struck her, The Heart of Worship: Beyond Performance. She read it twice, then a third time. The words were so raw, so personal. 

 

What kind of relationship does this man have with God? she wondered. It felt so different, so intimate, like he knew a God she could only imagine. She prayed too—she always had—but it didn’t feel like this. Not like what Timothy seemed to have.

 

That longing had driven her to send the anonymous message. She had typed it quickly, pouring out the questions that had been swirling in her mind for years:  

 

“I want to worship. I want to believe in God, because you must believe in something, right? But how do you truly worship a God you can’t see? I’m confused. I pray, I sing, but I don’t know if He’s even there. Is there really a God?“

 

After sending it, she immediately felt foolish. Why had she even bothered? He probably wouldn’t reply. And yet, deep down, she had hoped he would. She wanted to learn from him, even if it meant doing so from a distance.

 

But her heart wasn’t at peace. Here she was, hoping for his response, when she had earlier ignored his message and ended his call. The guilt nagged at her until she picked up her phone and found his number to apologise. 

As soon as she hit send, she exhaled deeply, relieved. She set the phone down and turned back to the brushes, resuming her task. The repetitive motion of cleaning and rinsing was soothing, almost meditative.

 

Amara was still cleaning when her phone buzzed. She grabbed it with wet fingers, her heart racing. It was Timothy’s reply.

 

“Hi, Amara. I forgave you years ago. Yes, you broke my heart, but I’ve made peace with it. I’m glad you’re doing well with your family—your husband and your daughter. I pray that God continues to bless your journey. Take care.”

 

Her heart stopped at one word: husband. Who told him she had a husband? And a daughter? She sighed heavily, feeling a fresh wave of shame wash over her. She sank into the chair by the table, staring at the phone. Why did I even message him?

 

Before she could dwell on the thought, Ziora coughed from the other room. Amara leapt up, rushing to her side. Her daughter was still fast asleep, curled up under the covers. Amara watched her for a moment, her chest tightening. She leaned down to touch her forehead, but Ziora rolled away, mumbling softly in her sleep.

 

Just then, her phone rang. She picked it up hurriedly, expecting her sister, but the number was unfamiliar. “Hello?” she answered cautiously.

 

“Good afternoon,” came a cheerful voice. “Please, how are you doing? This is Tari.”

 

Amara blinked, her mind racing to place the name. Tari? Oh, she must be one of the women she had done makeup for last week, although she was not sure if she had booked her directly. She didn’t know the family well but decided to remain polite. “Oh, good afternoon. I’m fine, thank you.”

 

“I just wanted to say your makeup was beautiful. You’re so talented!” Tari gushed.

 

Amara smiled faintly, feeling a bit awkward. “Thank you. The pleasure was all mine.”

 

“Are you free tomorrow?” Tari asked. “My friend and I are going for a party, and we’d love to use your services after church, say around one.”

 

Amara hesitated. “I don’t usually work on Sundays,” she began, but then she remembered her budget struggles from last week. There were things she needed to buy, and she couldn’t afford to turn down work. “But I can make myself available,” she added quickly. “I’ll just arrange for a babysitter for my daughter.”

 

“Oh, no need for that!” Tari said brightly. “You can bring her along. We have plenty of people here who can look after her while you work.”

 

“That’s… very thoughtful of you,” Amara said, surprised. “Thank you. Please send the address.”

 

“It’s the same place as last week,” Tari replied. “You know it, right?”

 

It clicked then. Tari… Timothy’s sister. Amara’s stomach dropped. “Oh… right,” she said weakly. “I’ll be there.”

 

After ending the call, Amara sat in stunned silence. If she had known it was Timothy’s family, she would have refused. She had sworn never to go back to that house. Now she had no choice. “Oh God,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands. “Why is this happening to me?”

 

A small cough broke her thoughts. She turned to see Ziora stirring awake. “Ziora, how are you?” she asked softly.

 

Her daughter didn’t answer, her gaze focused on something far off. “Ziora,” Amara repeated, her voice rising slightly. “Talk now.”

 

But Ziora remained silent, her small face impassive. Amara sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. “God, why won’t she talk? It just feels like everything is wrong with me.”

 

She reached out to touch Ziora’s shoulder, but her daughter turned away. Fighting tears, Amara stood and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge to prepare her daughter’s food. As she worked, she pulled out her phone and dialled her sister’s number. No answer. She sent a quick message instead:  

 

“Please, I’ll be dropping Ziora tomorrow. I have an impromptu job. Thanks.”

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Timothy sat on the edge of his bed, scrolling through messages on his phone. His body ached from the long day, but his mind refused to settle. A notification popped up from his manager, Kwese. 

 

Hey boss, it’s as if the floodgates have opened. Ever since your performance at The Experience, the invitations are rolling in like crazy. Big churches too—Action Chapel in Ghana, Dunamis in Abuja… they want you to come minister at their upcoming events. I really think we should say yes. It feels like the start of something new for you.

 

Timothy read the message twice, his lips curling into a faint smile. He could almost hear the excitement in Kwese’s voice. It wasn’t surprising—his manager had been nudging him for years to embrace more physical appearances. But Timothy wasn’t so sure.

 

He typed a quick reply: I don’t know, Kwese. I don’t feel up to it yet. I’ll pray about it. If this is what God wants, I’ll do it.

 

Almost immediately, Kwese responded: Pray, yes. But I’m telling you, this is the time to go all out. I’d better start fasting, even though it’s not New Year yet. I’ll fast for both of us!

 

Timothy laughed softly, shaking his head as he typed back: Better calm down, Kwese. Christmas is next week. Enjoy it well. Don’t put yourself under unnecessary pressure. If God wants me to do it, I’ll know, and we’ll move.

 

Satisfied with the exchange, Timothy placed his phone on the nightstand and stood, stretching his arms above his head. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he moved toward the bathroom. He peeled off his shirt and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water cascade over him.

 

As the steam filled the room, his thoughts drifted. The words of the anonymous message he had read earlier resurfaced in his mind, unbidden: 

 

“…I want to believe in God, but I don’t understand what it means to truly worship Him. How can I love a God I don’t see?”

 

Timothy closed his eyes, leaning against the tiled wall. “Oh God,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rush of water. “There are so many people like that—people who can’t imagine what a relationship with You looks like. Lord, help them. Help all of us. Let us not just be Christians in name only. Let us encounter You.”

 

The words tumbled out in a quiet, fervent prayer. As he spoke, a melody began to form in his heart, soft and persistent. The phrase “The Encounter” echoed in his mind, and he could feel the song taking shape. 

 

Turning off the water, Timothy quickly wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and opened the voice recorder app. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he hummed the tune that had emerged in his heart. Words followed naturally, flowing like a stream: 

 

“Not just a moment, Lord, but a lifetime of grace,  

Not just a feeling, but the warmth of Your face.  

Draw me closer, Lord, let my heart never stray,  

Oh, I seek The Encounter that won’t fade away.”

 

Timothy strummed the air with his fingers, imagining his guitar. He could already hear the chords in his mind. With every repetition of the chorus, the song felt more complete, more alive. He recorded a few lines, his voice low but steady, capturing the heart of the melody before it could slip away.

 

When he finally set the phone down, he leaned back against the pillows, his heart full. “Thank You, Lord,” he whispered. The peace that followed was unlike anything else, and for the first time that day, he felt completely at rest.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

As Amara followed Tari into the house, her heart felt heavier with each step. The house was just as grand as she remembered, its high ceilings and polished floors exuding an elegance that only heightened her sense of unease. She clutched Ziora’s hand tightly, trying to ground herself.

 

Tari bent slightly, smiling warmly at Ziora. “Hey, beautiful! What’s your name?”

 

Ziora, as usual, said nothing. Her wide eyes roamed the room, fixating on a tall vase in the corner. Amara cleared her throat, feeling the need to fill the silence. “Her name is Ziora,” she said softly.

 

“Ziora,” Tari repeated, her smile brightening. “What a beautiful name! How old is she?”

 

“She just turned four,” Amara replied, smoothing down Ziora’s dress as the little girl shifted her weight.

 

“She’s adorable,” Tari said, gently patting Ziora’s shoulder. When Ziora didn’t react, Amara felt a pang of anxiety. What will they think of her silence? she wondered. Outwardly, Ziora looked perfectly fine—beautiful, even—but her silence often drew questions Amara wasn’t ready to answer.

 

“Come on,” Tari said, leading them down a hallway. They entered a cozy study where a middle-aged woman sat waiting, her face kind and welcoming.

 

“This is Aunty Tina,” Tari explained. “She’s our housekeeper, but honestly, this house doesn’t need much keeping, so she’s more like family. I already told her you’d be bringing Ziora, and she’s happy to help babysit while we work. They can stay here in the study—it’s quiet and comfortable.”

 

Amara hesitated. “Are you sure?” she asked, glancing down at Ziora, who was already wandering toward a low bookshelf.

 

“Of course,” Tari said, her tone reassuring. “Aunty Tina will take great care of her.”

 

“Thank you,” Amara said finally, as she carried Ziora and gently lowered her into a chair. She then knelt beside her. “Be good, okay?” she murmured, brushing a stray braid from her face.

 

Ziora didn’t respond, but she didn’t resist when Aunty Tina handed her a brightly coloured book. Taking a deep breath, Amara stood and followed Tari back to the living room.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Amara carried her makeup box to the corner of the room where she had worked during her previous visit. As she unpacked her brushes and palettes, her thoughts drifted. 

 

She hadn’t wanted to bring Ziora, but her sister had been unavailable. The church programme they attended had run longer than expected, and her sister insisted she couldn’t leave early. You’ll have to figure it out, her sister had said over the phone. I can’t help you this time.

 

Amara had considered cancelling the job altogether but quickly dismissed the idea. She needed the money. The groceries she could barely buy last week were a constant reminder that every job counted. She also told herself: This is my life now. Ziora is my child, and I’m not hiding her from the world. Still, walking into this house with her daughter was nerve-wracking.

 

Her thoughts were interrupted as Tari entered the room. “I’ll go get Maryann,” she said. “She’s upstairs sorting out our outfits. You can set up while I’m gone.”

 

Amara nodded, grateful for the moment of solitude. As she arranged her tools, she tried to focus on the task at hand, but her mind kept drifting. She hadn’t noticed any sign of Timothy, which was both a relief and a disappointment. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. He’s probably not even home.

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Minutes later, Tari returned with Maryann, who greeted Amara with a brief nod. “Hello,” she said, her tone polite but distant. “I heard your daughter is here.”

 

“Yes,” Amara replied, keeping her voice neutral.

 

“Good,” Maryann said with a tight smile, though there was no warmth in her expression. She turned to Tari. “You go first. I need to grab some water.”

 

“Water? Can’t you just do your face first?” Tari asked, exasperated.

 

“No, no,” Maryann insisted, waving her off. “Just start without me. I’ll be quick.”

 

Tari rolled her eyes and took a seat. “Fine.”

 

Amara set to work, blending foundation onto Tari’s face with steady hands. She focused on the motions, blocking out Maryann’s frosty demeanor and her own lingering discomfort. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could leave.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

Maryann paused in front of Timothy’s studio door, gathering her thoughts. I can’t let this opportunity slide, she thought, her mind working quickly. She needed to get him out of there without raising suspicion, and she had just the idea.

 

Knocking lightly, she waited for a response. When none came, she knocked again, her heart racing. After a moment, the door creaked open, and Timothy appeared, his expression curious but calm.

 

“Maryann?” he said, glancing at her. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

 

Maryann smiled warmly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes, everything’s fine. I just—I was thinking about something and wanted to ask you about it.”

 

Timothy raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. “You’re acting a little…different. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

 

She let out a small laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “No, not at all! It’s just…I was talking to Tari earlier, and she mentioned that book you recommended to her. What was it again? Something by Joyce Meyer?”

 

Timothy’s expression softened. “Oh, probably Battlefield of the Mind. That’s one of my favorites.”

 

“Yes, that’s it!” Maryann said, snapping her fingers. “I’ve been thinking. I’d like to read it too, but…I don’t really know my way around the study, and I’d probably get lost trying to find it. So I thought, maybe…you could help me?”

 

Timothy tilted his head, studying her for a moment. “You want to read Battlefield of the Mind?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad you’re taking an interest in something like that.”

 

Maryann shrugged, keeping her tone light. “Well, it sounded like a good book when Tari mentioned it. And you know me, I’m always open to trying new things.”

 

Timothy hesitated, glancing back into the studio. “I’m in the middle of a session, but…” He looked back at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Since you’re interested in reading, I can make an exception. Let’s go find it.”

 

Maryann’s smile widened, and she shook her head lightly. “Oh, no, no, I don’t want to interrupt your session! I can manage.”

 

“It’s fine,” Timothy said, stepping out and closing the door behind him. “I’m happy to help. Besides, it’s good that you’re thinking about reading something edifying. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

 

Maryann nodded, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Thank you, Timothy. That’s very kind of you.”

 

The two of them began walking down the hallway toward the study with Timothy leading the way. As they approached the door, Maryann’s steps grew lighter, and a knowing smile crept across her face. Perfect, she thought. Exactly what I wanted.

 

Timothy, unaware of her hidden intentions, opened the door to the study and gestured for her to step inside. “Let’s see if we can find it,” he said, moving toward the shelves.

 

Maryann followed, her eyes briefly flicking toward the corner where Aunty Tina sat with Ziora. She masked her triumph behind a polite expression, already anticipating what was about to unfold. Today, this fantasy about Amarachi will finally die. He needs to see her child and know that she will never be his again. She has moved on, and so must he.

 

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Maryann is turning out to be as wicked as I thought she’ll be. Hmm.. I can’t wait for Timothy’s reaction. My heart goes out to Amara too. She’s a Christian but it seems she’s not well rooted yet. As much as I like a love story, I hope Amara will first solidify her relationship with God.