Something changed after that Bible study.
Not suddenly. Not like thunder cracking through my storm. No. It was slower—like sunrise creeping over a bruised sky. Quiet and patient.
I kept going back.
Every Thursday evening, I'd slip into the wooden pew near the back. I didn't pray aloud. I didn't know the songs. But I listened. And I started carrying my journal everywhere. My pen was no longer a weapon of guilt—it became a shovel, digging gently through the rubble of my soul.
Rehema noticed.
One day, as we packed up storybooks after the literacy class, she handed me a small, worn Bible.
"I had a few at home," she said, shrugging. "Thought you might like one."
I held it like it was something fragile. Something sacred.
"Thank you," I whispered.
At home, things were still broken. Zawadi barely looked at me. Subira had withdrawn into her sketchbooks, and Amani—my sweet, sensitive Amani—had stopped asking for bedtime kisses. The silence between us filled the flat like smoke.
But that evening, after they'd gone to bed, I opened the Bible. The pages crinkled like old leaves. I landed on Isaiah, without meaning to. My eyes caught the words: When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.
I wrote those words down. Over and over.
The next morning, I lingered outside Amani's classroom. His teacher, a kind middle-aged man named Mr. Lobo, greeted me with a nod. "He's quiet lately," he said gently. "Thought you should know."
My throat tightened. "Thank you."
I waited till Amani came out, his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. I bent down, tried to catch his eye.
"How was school?"
He shrugged.
"Want to walk home with me today?"
Another shrug.
But he didn't say no.
We walked mostly in silence. I let him lead the way. When we got to the flat, I made sweet potatoes the way Yona used to. The smell filled the kitchen like a memory.
At dinner, Amani mumbled, "I miss Dad's stories."
I paused, spoon halfway to my mouth.
"I do too," I said softly.
That night, I pulled out an old album. Dusty, corners curling. I placed it on the table.
"If you want… maybe we can look through it this weekend?"
He nodded. Barely. But it was a start.
The next Bible study, I shared a verse aloud. My voice shook. But Rehema squeezed my hand under the table. And afterwards, one of the elders asked if I'd like to help with the children's lesson the following week.
I said yes.
It was the first real yes I'd said to life in years.