I didn't go looking for faith that day. I was only meant to accompany Miriam to church because she had invited me so many times I could no longer find polite excuses. I wasn't even sure I believed in anything anymore—least of all forgiveness. Yet there I was, seated quietly on a wooden pew, in a small, sun-warmed building tucked behind jacaranda trees.
It was the simplicity that struck me first. No flashing lights. No exaggerated performances. Just soft voices, worn hymnals, and the rustle of children's feet. And then… the silence. The kind that makes you sit straighter, breathe slower, think deeper. The kind I'd spent years avoiding.
The preacher wasn't anyone remarkable. A soft-spoken man with greying temples and a modest suit. But his words found their way past the defences I didn't know were still standing.
> "Some of you are sitting here today," he said, "with wounds you've wrapped so tightly, you've forgotten how to bleed. You think the shame defines you. You think you've wandered too far. But God says—come. Just come."
I didn't know when it began, but tears rolled down my cheeks like something had finally cracked open. I wasn't crying from pain. Not the kind that claws and chokes. These were quieter tears—tears of release, of realisation. Of something loosening inside me.
I didn't sing. I didn't speak. I just sat there, heart hammering, hands cold, soul exposed. I remembered Yona. Subira. Zawadi. Amani. The damage I had caused. The people I'd let down. And yet… something inside me whispered, it's not too late.
After the service, I lingered. Miriam smiled but said nothing. She didn't have to. My eyes betrayed me.
"Come again next week," she said gently.
I nodded, unsure of what I was agreeing to. But deep inside, I knew: I had crossed a threshold. I wasn't the same woman who walked into that church. Something had begun. Something I didn't yet understand, but desperately needed.
The days that followed felt strangely lighter. Not easier—no. The bills still piled up. The children still carried their private grief like silent badges. But something within me had shifted. I caught myself humming one of the hymns as I washed dishes. I opened my old journal again, scribbled pages of thoughts I hadn't dared voice in years.
Even Amani noticed.
"Mum, why are you smiling like that?" he asked one evening, frowning at me like I'd grown a second head.
"I don't know," I said, chuckling softly. "I just feel… peaceful."
Subira was more guarded. She watched me with quiet suspicion, as if she feared this version of me was another mask waiting to fall. Zawadi, on the other hand, barely spoke. He had withdrawn so deeply into himself that even joy tiptoed when he was near.
That Friday, I cleaned the house properly for the first time in months. I changed the curtains, aired out the lounge, and even cooked a proper meal—nothing fancy, just rice and lentils with a bit of coconut milk like we used to have when things were better. The children were puzzled. Amani clapped when he saw the table set.
On Sabbath morning, I stood by my wardrobe, staring at clothes I hadn't worn in ages. I settled on a long, plain dress—blue with white trim. It felt modest, unfamiliar, and oddly comforting.
"You're going again?" Subira asked from the doorway.
I nodded.
"Can I come?"
The question took me by surprise. She hadn't come to church in years.
"Of course," I said. "You're always welcome."
That Sabbath, we sat together, side by side on the same wooden pew. This time, I paid closer attention. The preacher spoke of redemption—not as a reward for the perfect, but as a gift for the broken. I held Subira's hand tightly. For the first time in years, I prayed with all my heart—not just for forgiveness, but for the courage to rebuild.
That evening, I wrote in my journal:
Perhaps grace isn't a place you arrive at, but a journey you learn to walk. And maybe—just maybe—I'm ready to begin.
The following Wednesday, Esther—the woman who'd first invited me to church—called to check in.
"We have a women's Bible study group tomorrow evening," she said. "Just a few of us. Nothing formal. We share, we pray, sometimes we laugh or cry. You're welcome if you'd like."
I hesitated. My instinct was to decline. I wasn't ready for small talk or pitying eyes. But something told me to go.
So, after work the next day, I walked the dusty path to Esther's house. It was modest, painted in pale yellow, with a garden of hibiscus blooming along the front fence. I could hear soft laughter even before I reached the door.
Inside, five women sat on cushions around a low table. A Bible lay open in the centre. They welcomed me with warm smiles and steaming mugs of rooibos tea.
We read from Luke 15—the parable of the prodigal son. I sat quietly at first, listening to the others share stories of mistakes, second chances, and the quiet ways God had drawn them back. One woman had left an abusive marriage. Another had battled addiction. Each story carried pain, but also hope.
When they turned to me, I felt my throat tighten.
"I... I left my husband," I said slowly. "Not because he hurt me. But because I thought I'd outgrown him. I chased... things. Attention. Freedom. I hurt my children. I hurt him. And he died before I could ever say sorry."
The room fell silent. Then Esther reached out and took my hand.
"You're here," she said gently. "And He's never stopped loving you. That's what grace means."
I cried again. Not from guilt this time, but from the strange relief of being known and not rejected.
Afterward, as I walked home under a sky heavy with stars, I realised something was changing in me. Not instantly. Not completely. But deeply.
When I got home, Amani was asleep. Subira was reading. Zawadi was in his room with headphones on. I watched them for a long time from the hallway.
And for the first time in years, I whispered a prayer over them.
Not for more money.
Not for life to go back to how it was.
Just for the chance to become the mother they needed. Even now.
It began with a cup of tea.
Subira had made it—just like I used to for her when she was younger. She didn't say anything, just left it beside me on the table while I was reviewing a draft proposal for the NGO. It was warm, slightly sweet, just the way I liked it.
I looked up. "Thank you."
She didn't respond at first, but then shrugged. "You looked tired."
It wasn't an apology. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was something.
Later that evening, I found her in the kitchen drying dishes. I offered to help, and to my surprise, she handed me a towel.
We worked side by side in silence. I caught her glancing at me once, as if trying to measure whether I was still the woman who'd once slammed doors and vanished for nights. I didn't push conversation. I let the silence breathe.
When we finished, I leaned on the counter. "I know I haven't been the mother you deserved. I don't expect you to forget. But I hope… maybe one day, you'll forgive."
Subira looked at me for a long moment. Her eyes were steady but soft.
"I'm trying," she said quietly. "It's just… hard."
"I know," I said. "It's hard for me too."
That night, I didn't sleep out of restlessness but out of reflection. The distance was still there, but it felt… crossable. Like a fragile bridge just beginning to stretch between us.
At the Bible study the next week, I told the group about Subira's tea. They smiled and nodded, as if they understood the weight of such a small act.
"Sometimes healing begins with just showing up," Esther said.
I didn't speak much after that. I just sat there, grateful, holding onto the image of my daughter's quiet gesture—proof that grace was not only flowing into me, but slowly, cautiously, seeping out into the world I'd once broken.
It was a Saturday afternoon when it happened.
The house was unusually still. Subira had gone to a friend's for group revision, and Amani was asleep in the next room. I was sitting at the table, flipping through my Bible study guide, when Zawadi walked in. He didn't greet me. He just stood there, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
"You act like everything is fine now," he said suddenly. "Just because you go to church."
His voice was calm, too calm. That frightened me more than if he had shouted.
I lowered the booklet. "Zawadi, I don't think everything is fine. I know it's not. I'm trying—"
"No," he cut in, stepping closer. "You're trying now. After everything's already broken. Where were you when I needed help with my schoolwork? When Amani cried all night and you didn't come home? When Subira stopped talking for days?"
His words were knives I had earned. I sat there, swallowing them one by one.
"You didn't just leave Dad," he went on, voice rising now. "You left us too."
I stood slowly. "Zawadi, I know I failed. And I'll never pretend otherwise. But I'm here now. I'm trying to make things right—"
"Too late," he snapped. "Dad's dead. You can't fix that."
I felt my chest tighten, a wave of heat rushing to my eyes. "I think about him every day. I hate myself for what I did to him. But I can't go back. I can only… ask for your forgiveness. Even if you can't give it yet."
Zawadi shook his head. "I don't even know who you are anymore."
"I'm still your mother," I said softly. "Not the best one, I know. But I haven't stopped loving you. I never stopped."
He didn't respond. He just turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sank into the chair again, trembling. That evening, I didn't go to the Bible study. I sat alone, journaling through the ache. For the first time, I wrote his name—Yona—at the top of the page. And I wrote an apology. Not one I'd ever send, but one I needed to let out.
Because sometimes grace means facing the mess, not erasing it.
The following morning, I stayed in bed longer than usual. I'd barely slept. Zawadi's words had echoed through the night like a broken chorus, each syllable carved into my ribs. I hadn't cried—not yet. I think I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn't stop.
I only got up when I heard a soft knock at the door.
When I opened it, it was Martha—the gentle-voiced woman from church who always brought extra biscuits for the children. She stood with a small woven basket in her hands.
"Good morning," she said, eyes kind but knowing. "I was in the area. Thought I'd check in."
I tried to smile, but it didn't reach my eyes. "Come in."
She sat down at the edge of the sofa like someone used to being invited into quiet grief. She didn't ask questions. Just handed me the basket—some mangoes, fresh bread, and a small envelope tucked beneath.
"What's this?"
She shrugged. "Some of the women pooled a little something. Just in case school supplies are tight."
Tears welled up before I could stop them. "I don't deserve this."
"No one said anything about deserving," she replied gently. "Love is given, not earned."
We sat in silence for a moment. And then, from the back room, came the sound of Amani stirring. Little feet padding toward us. He peeked around the corner, eyes sleepy.
"Mama?"
"Yes, baby."
He walked over and rested his head against my leg. "I had a dream about Daddy. He smiled at you."
My breath caught.
Martha placed a hand over mine. "Maybe that's grace, Neema. The kind that finds you even when you don't go looking."
I nodded slowly, holding Amani a little tighter.
Because maybe grace wasn't loud. Maybe it whispered through mango baskets, a child's dream, or an unexpected knock on the door.
Maybe it was patching me up, one stitch at a time.