That small strip of sky was the only thing in Uncle Boniface’s house that belonged to her.
Everything else had to be earned with silence.
She rose quietly because if the door made a sound, Madam Ezinne would shout from the master bedroom.
“Girl! Are you breaking my house?”
They never called her Adaeze.
Not Uncle Boniface.
Not his wife.
Not their children.
Not even the driver.
To them she was girl, househelp, come here, are you deaf, what is wrong with you, useless thing.
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