What was supposed to be a simple seventh birthday party in Embu turned into the kind of story that people whisper about long after the cake has been eaten.
The compound was decorated with pink and gold balloons. Children were running around with plastic plates piled high with pilau and juice. Relatives had traveled from as far as Chuka and Runyenjes to celebrate little Tasha’s big day.
Everything was perfect. Until the toast.
When it was time for speeches, Tasha’s mother, Lydia, stood up holding a glass of soda. She smiled warmly at her daughter, thanked everyone for coming, and began talking about love, family, and destiny.
Then her tone changed.
“There is something I have carried in my heart for twenty years,” she said slowly. “And today, I cannot keep it anymore.”
The laughter faded. Even the children sensed something serious was happening.
Lydia turned toward her husband.
“Tasha is not your biological child.”
Silence.
