Three days after the funeral, Choolwe confronted her father.
She chose the study.
The same room where her mother had uncovered the truth.
The same room where their family had begun to unravel.
Chanda entered slowly.
He looked older than he had just weeks earlier.
Grief had carved new lines into his face.
Yet Choolwe felt little sympathy.
She placed the documents on the desk.
One by one.
The diary.
The investigation report.
The bank records.
The photographs.
Chanda stared at them silently.
Then he lowered his head.
"I know."
His calm response only fueled her anger.
"You know?"
"Yes."
"My mother is dead."
His eyes closed.
"I know."
"She died carrying this pain."
His voice cracked.
"I know."
The repetition infuriated her.
"You keep saying that."
"What else can I say?"
"The truth!"
The words exploded from her.
For the first time, Chanda raised his voice.
"The truth is that I was selfish!"
Silence followed.
Heavy silence.
Then the confession began.
Not the careful confession he had given Chumuka.
A raw one.
An ugly one.
He spoke about mistakes made when he was young.
He spoke about fear.
Cowardice.
Poor decisions.
Years of hiding.
Years of rationalizing.
Years of convincing himself that secrecy protected everyone.
Instead, secrecy had poisoned everything.
"I thought I could manage it," he admitted.
"I thought nobody needed to be hurt."
Choolwe laughed bitterly.
"How did that work out?"
The question crushed him.
For a long time he simply stared at the floor.
Then tears appeared.
"I lost your mother."
For the first time, Choolwe saw genuine regret.
Not fear of exposure.
Not concerned for reputation.
Regret.
But it changed nothing.
At least not yet.
Because regret could not bring Chumuka back.
And as Choolwe left the room, one thought remained.
Her father deserved to face consequences.
The question was how far she was willing to go.