Kolade had stepped from the car and was watching.
Naomi gestured toward him.
“That is my driver.”
“My husband’s name is James.”
“I will call the proper people.”
“I will not separate you from your sister.”
Diane looked directly into her eyes.
“Promise?”
Naomi felt the weight of the word.
“I promise I will do everything I can to keep you together.”
That answer was more honest than promising an outcome she did not yet control.
Diane considered it.
Then she took Sandra’s hand and stood.
The girls entered the car.
Sandra touched the leather seat.
Her eyes widened.
Diane sat stiffly, still prepared to leave if necessary.
Naomi called a trusted family lawyer first.
He advised her to contact social welfare authorities and the police to ensure the children were not reported missing and that their identities could be confirmed.
She did.
Arrangements were made for an officer and a social worker to meet them at Naomi’s home after the girls ate and washed.
Kolade drove.
Naomi sat beside the children.
Sandra looked through the window at the city as though she had never seen it from inside a cool vehicle.
Diane watched every turn.
She was memorizing the route.
Naomi understood that too.
The white house appeared beyond the gate.
When the car stopped, Sandra stared.
“Is this your house?”
“Yes.”
“Only yours?”
Naomi smiled faintly.
“My husband lives here too.”
“And now us?”
The question came so quickly and innocently that Naomi’s heart stumbled.
“For today,” she said carefully.
“Then we will see what is safest.”
Diane heard the caution.
Sandra heard only the word today.
Inside, the household manager, Bisi, came from the kitchen wiping her hands on a cloth.
She was a round, energetic woman whose stern voice concealed a tenderness she considered private.
Naomi explained quickly.
Bisi’s expression changed as she looked at the girls.
Not shock.
Assessment.
“Food first,” she said.
“Then bath.”
Naomi nodded.
Warm water was prepared.
Clean towels placed nearby.
Bisi found simple clothing stored for visiting relatives’ children and adjusted waistbands with quick stitches.
Sandra entered the bath with a small cry of delight.
Diane remained cautious.
“Will the door lock?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Can Sandra stay with me?”
“Yes.”
Naomi left them privacy.
When the girls emerged, clean and dressed, the change was startling.
Diane’s braids had been redone.
Her face revealed delicate features hidden beneath dust and exhaustion.
Sandra’s hair was tied into small sections.
She kept touching the soft cotton dress Bisi had given her.
They ate at the kitchen table.
Rice.
Stew.
Vegetables.
Chicken.
The girls ate silently at first.
With concentration.
Not greed.
They finished everything and glanced toward the serving dishes while trying not to ask.
Bisi served them again.
Then a third time.
Her eyes shone with tears, but her voice stayed firm.
“Slowly.”
“No one is taking the food.”
Diane’s hand paused.
That sentence reached somewhere deeper than hunger.
No one is taking the food.
The social worker arrived with a female police officer.
They interviewed Diane gently and separately enough to confirm details without frightening her.
The children’s mother had indeed died several months earlier in a crowded neighborhood during an illness. Their father’s death had been documented two years before.
A neighbor had cared for them briefly.
Then housing problems scattered the informal support around them.
No legal guardian had been appointed.
The uncle could not immediately be located.
The social worker explained that the children would ordinarily be transferred to an emergency children’s home while investigations continued.
Diane’s face changed.
Sandra clutched her arm.
Naomi asked whether temporary kinship-style emergency care could be considered while background checks were performed.
The social worker studied her.
“You met them today.”
“Yes.”
“This is a serious responsibility.”
“I know.”
“No, madam.”
The woman’s voice remained professional.
“You understand the words.”
“You do not yet understand the daily reality.”
Naomi accepted the correction.
“Then help me understand it.”
James was called.
Naomi expected surprise.
Maybe concern.
Perhaps even refusal.
Instead, he asked one question.
“Are the girls safe right now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming home.”
The official agreed to allow the children to remain for the evening under supervision while preliminary arrangements were reviewed, since Naomi and James were known residents with a stable home and had immediately contacted authorities rather than concealing the situation.
Nothing was promised.
Forms were started.
Checks initiated.
Diane listened to every adult word.
Placement.
Assessment.
Relatives.
Temporary.
She understood enough to know that the large house might disappear by morning.
James arrived shortly after sunset.
He entered removing his tie and stopped when he heard children’s voices in the kitchen.
For five years, that sound had not existed in the house.
