After her recovery, she returned home. Though according to the doctor she was physically fit to be discharged, I still felt she needed a lot of emotional healing. I suggested bringing down the images of her husband on the walls of the house, but she objected, saying, "Please don't bring it down. I won't survive if I stop seeing his face around."

Surprisingly, after she was discharged, we stopped receiving letters or comforting cards from her friends or family. None of them visited at home. This made her feel despondent. We had a long talk one afternoon, and she said, "Janet, I think I might be going through depression. I guess those cards I got from people while I was at the hospital were just a show of fake love. It has finally dawned on me that people don't really care about me." "No, Nike, please don't think like that. Look here, if you're depressed, I can arrange a session with a health counselor." "Never mind, dear. I'll be fine." "Please, if you ever need someone to speak with, remember I'm always here for you. Even if your family or friends neglect you, I'll be here to console you." I held her hands and prayed with her. I reached out to her husband's family about her worsening condition. They promised to pay her a visit, but they never did.

Moving forward, I watched her condition improve day by day. We had consecutive talks about mental health and life issues. It felt like things were finally getting better until one evening when I came back from work. The sitting room was devoid; the usual spot where Adenike usually sat was empty. The TV played at a very loud volume. I noticed a piece of paper with a pen lying on the floor across the comfy brown furniture. At first, I thought Adenike was asleep, observing her usual siesta. I went into my room to change my clothes, not wanting to interrupt her siesta. Normally, after my arrival from work, she would join me at the sitting room. I was scared, so I stood by her room door, knocking and knocking, screaming her name continuously. Forcing the door open, I was grieved to see Adenike lying lifeless on the floor with a couple of sedatives in her hand and a bottle labeled "Acid" beside her.

At the hospital, she was rushed to the Intensive Care Unit. I couldn't believe what had just happened. I kept doubting, pacing around the hallway, praying to God to wake me from this dream. But when the doctor came out of the operating room, shaking his head and informing me that Adenike was gone, I realized it wasn't a dream, and I had just lost a dear friend, my only ever real friend, to mental illness.