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The note didn't seem important at first.
It lay on the wooden table in the sitting room, folded and quiet, as if it had been waiting. There was no envelope and no name written on it. Just paper.
When Chinedu got home from work that evening, he almost missed it. He felt exhausted, the kind of tired that sinks deep into your bones. His shirt smelled of engine oil, and all he could think about was food and sleep.
He dropped his bag on the chair and stretched a bit. That’s when he noticed it.
“What’s this?” he muttered.
He picked it up, turning it over as if it might explain itself.
“Amaka!” he called.
From the kitchen, she replied, “Yes?”
“Did you leave this paper here?”
“No! I just got back not long ago.”
Chinedu frowned and unfolded it.
The handwriting was neat. Too neat. It felt like the writer wanted to avoid mistakes.
Chinedu,
You don’t have as much time as you think.
There are things you are ignoring that will soon demand your attention.
Check the drawer in your mother’s room.
Do not delay.
He read it once, then again.
He even checked the back, hoping for some clue about who wrote it.
Nothing.
He let out a short laugh, but it didn’t sound real. “Who’s playing this kind of joke?”
Amaka came out and stood beside him. He handed her the paper.
She read it quickly. “Maybe it’s from your friends?”
“Which friends?” he asked. “And how did they get into the house?”
Then they both fell silent.
The door had been locked.
Chinedu looked at the note again. Something about it felt off. It wasn’t just random words. It was specific.
“Check the drawer in your mother’s room.”
He scratched his head.
“I don’t like this kind of thing,” he said.
Amaka shrugged, but she was curious. “What if it’s something serious?”
He didn’t reply right away.
Then he turned and started walking to their mother’s room.
The door made its usual small sound as he pushed it open. The room smelled like medicine and shea butter, a scent that had slowly become familiar in the house.
His mother wasn’t inside.
He stood there for a few seconds, holding the note, wondering if he should just forget it.
But he didn’t.
He walked to the bedside drawer.
That drawer had been there for years. It always stuck when you tried to open it. Even now, he had to pull it twice before it finally opened.
Inside were the usual items—medications, a small Bible, some wrappers…
And then he saw it.
A brown envelope.
He paused.
“I’ve never seen this before,” he whispered.
He picked it up.
His name was written on it.
Just “Chinedu.”
Nothing more.
His heart raced slightly.
He opened it slowly, as if afraid of what he might find inside.
There was a paper and another note.
He picked up the note first.
If you are reading this, it means you finally paid attention.
Your mother has been hiding something from you—not because she wants to, but because she is afraid.
Read the document carefully.
You need to act fast.
Chinedu swallowed.
He dropped the note and unfolded the main paper.
It was a medical report.
At first, the wording didn’t make much sense. Too many complicated terms. But as he read further, things started to become clear.
Too clear.
One line stood out above the rest.
Advanced stage… Immediate treatment required.
His chest tightened.
“No… this can’t be true.”
He went through it again, slower this time.
Dates, doctor’s comments, warnings.
Everything pointed to one thing.
His mother was seriously ill.
Not the small sickness she kept mentioning.
Something worse.
Something she never told them.
Chinedu sank down on the bed.
“All this time…” he murmured.
He remembered how she would smile and say, “I’m fine, don’t worry.”
How she always changed the topic when he asked questions.
How she kept saying, “God is in control.”
He thought she was just being strong.
He didn’t know she was hiding this.
He stood up suddenly and walked out.
“Amaka!”
She hurried over. “What happened?”
He handed her the paper.
She read it slowly, and her expression changed.
“This is for Mummy?” she asked quietly.
He nodded.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she said, almost in a whisper, “Why didn’t she tell us?”
Chinedu didn’t reply immediately.
Because deep down, he knew.
Money.
Fear.
Maybe she didn’t want to worry them.
Maybe she hoped it would just go away.
He looked at the note again.
You don’t have as much time as you think.
If not for that paper on the table, he wouldn’t have checked.
He wouldn’t have known.
And time would have just kept passing.
He folded the note carefully this time.
“We’re going to the hospital tomorrow,” he said.
Amaka nodded, holding the document tightly.
“And the money?” she asked.
Chinedu exhaled slowly.
“We’ll find it,” he said. “We have to.”
That night, he couldn’t sleep well.
The note stayed beside him.
Just ordinary paper.
But the kind that carries information you can’t ignore.
The kind that changes everything.
