The cemetery sat on a hill just outside the city, silent except for the rustling of dry grass and the occasional crow overhead.
The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows across the worn headstones.
I clutched a small bouquet of white lilies in my hands — simple, pure, and trembling slightly with the breeze, just like my heart.
It had taken me months to find the courage to come here.
Months of carrying guilt like a heavy stone in my chest.
Months of praying for the strength to face what I had so long tried to forget.
Yona's grave was near an old acacia tree, its branches reaching toward the heavens like pleading arms.
The stone was plain, weathered by rain and years of neglect.
No grand tombstone. No polished marble.
Just his name, barely legible: Yona Baraka, Beloved Son, Husband, Father.
I knelt down slowly, my knees sinking into the dry earth.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I had carried inside.
"I'm so sorry, Yona."
Tears blurred my vision as I laid the flowers gently at the base of the stone.
"You loved me when I was unlovable.
You stayed when you had every reason to leave.
And I... I broke your heart."
The wind answered with a soft sigh through the branches above.
Memories flooded my mind — his laughter echoing in our tiny living room, his patience when I came home late again, the way he had held our children close when I was too busy chasing empty dreams.
"I blamed you. I mocked you. I left you alone in a marriage you fought for... and now you're gone."
I pressed my forehead against the cool stone, weeping openly, unashamed.
There were no eloquent prayers here.
Only raw grief.
Only truth.
"I hope you can forgive me, Yona.
I hope — wherever you are — you know that I finally see.
I finally understand."
I stayed there for a long time, pouring out every regret, every selfish decision, every cruel word I wished I could take back.
When I finally rose to my feet, the sky had turned a dusky pink, and a strange peace settled over me.
Not because I believed everything was fixed.
Not because I thought I deserved forgiveness.
But because confession had broken something inside me — and in the breaking, healing had begun.
I made my way to Yona's family home a few days later, trembling inside.
His mother, Mama Asha, had aged dramatically.
Her back was stooped, her hands knotted with years of hard work and sorrow.
She sat on the worn veranda, shelling peanuts into a rusted basin, her movements slow and mechanical.
When she saw me approach, her eyes narrowed with a deep, ancient pain.
I almost turned back.
But something stronger — something rooted in truth and humility — pushed me forward.
"Mama Asha," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
She didn't answer.
She just watched me, her face unreadable.
I dropped to my knees before her, lowering my head in shame.
"I came to ask your forgiveness."
The words trembled into the warm afternoon air.
For a long, agonising moment, she said nothing.
Finally, her voice came — brittle, but clear:
"Forgiveness? For what, Neema?"
Tears filled my eyes.
"For failing your son.
For breaking his heart.
For abandoning the family he loved so much."
I could hear the peanuts falling from her hands into the basin, forgotten.
"I was blind," I went on, "chasing things that didn't matter, thinking I was better than the life I had.
And by the time I realised the truth... it was too late."
Mama Asha wiped her hands slowly on her kitenge cloth, still silent.
"I don't expect your forgiveness, Mama.
I don't even deserve it.
But I needed you to hear me say it.
I'm sorry. From the bottom of my soul, I am sorry."
A small sound escaped her lips — half a sob, half a sigh.
And then, to my astonishment, she leaned forward and pulled me into her frail arms.
Her embrace was rough, desperate, trembling with the years of grief that neither of us could ever undo.
"God forgives those who truly repent," she whispered into my hair. "Who am I not to forgive, if He does?"
I wept into her shoulder, both of us clinging to each other like women shipwrecked by sorrow — and somehow, finding solid ground in shared grace.
Later that evening, I gathered my children in the tiny living room of our rented house.
They sat stiffly, suspicious, wary.
The wounds between us were deep, their trust fragile and cautious.
"I need to tell you something," I began, swallowing my pride.
"I failed you. I failed your father. I failed God.
And I am so, so sorry."
Zawadi crossed her arms, her face hard.
Amani stared at the floor, tracing patterns with his foot.
"I can't undo the past," I continued, tears brimming again. "But from today, I want to be different.
I want to be the mother you deserve — a mother who loves you, guides you, and walks with you, no matter what."
Subira, my eldest, bit her lip, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, slowly, hesitantly, Amani stood and walked toward me.
He wrapped his small arms around my waist.
"I forgive you, Mama," he said simply.
Zawadi rolled her eyes, but her posture softened.
Subira wiped her tears angrily but nodded.
It wasn't a full healing — not yet.
It would take time, and consistency, and a river of prayer.
But in that fragile embrace, I saw the first tender shoots of trust growing again.
Maybe, just maybe, God was stitching my broken family back together — thread by precious thread.