She bumped into my mother by the door.
I was just passing by to say "hi" as she left.
Another woman carried my bloodline in her belly. The thought alone felt like a message from above — a reason to live, a reminder that there was still hope. My body and soul began to work together again, slowly finding their rhythm. Today, I felt better than yesterday.
But the past still weighed heavy. It was painful seeing my family desperate to find someone to blame. Without knowing the full story, they turned on Rebecca. They said she was the reason behind everything that went wrong.
We had been living together before the incident happened. After that, she wasn't welcome near me anymore. People mistreated her, whispered about her situation, and left her to face it all alone. Misery followed her everywhere she went.
Her name was Manessah Olerato — a name that meant "you are loved." I'd chosen it long ago in high school, never knowing I'd one day give it to my unborn child. That name became my light, the thing that pushed me to keep fighting — for Rebecca, and for the child we were expecting.
Then came something unexpected. Someone started sending me small treats — usually fruit — two or three times a week. But what stood out was the apple. It was always green.
Only Rebecca knew how much I loved green apples.
When she heard the accusations, she didn't hide or run. She stood her ground. She started gathering every detail, connecting every loose end.
Rebecca lived just three streets away. On weekends, she'd often see the same people who judged her pretending to be righteous. Fridays, I was usually home alone, and she knew that. It was risky, but sometimes she'd come by just to check on me — especially after her clinic appointments.
She'd call my name from across the street, her voice soft but clear.
Nobody in my family knew I could walk again. But when I heard her calling, I shouted back — louder than I meant to — just to let her know I heard her. I dragged my feet to the kitchen, step by step, then made it outside.
When she saw me walking, her whole face lit up with a smile. She rushed over to help me down the steps, worried I might fall.
As we reached the gate, she said gently,
> "Let's go to my place."
So we went. Slowly but surely, we were getting there — healing, forgiving, learning to trust again.
She had always been patient with me, even back in high school when I didn't always get things right. I trusted her completely now. She clapped her hands and said,
> "Look at you, making it this far."
When we reached her place, I went straight to bed. She made sure I was comfortable before heading to the kitchen to cook. That was Rebecca — caring, steady, and true to her word.
Rebecca's place felt different. It wasn't just a house — it was quiet, calm, and full of small details that showed how much she cared. The smell of warm food filled the room, and the sound of her moving around in the kitchen made me realize how much I'd missed simple things like that.
I sat there, still trying to believe how far I'd come. Every step I took that day had been a small victory. My body was weak, but my heart — it was finally starting to heal.
She came in with a plate of food and a smile that said everything would be okay.
> "Eat first, we'll talk later," she said.
So I did. I didn't say much, but my silence wasn't empty. It was filled with gratitude, memories, and thoughts of what lay ahead.
After I finished eating, she sat beside me. She placed her hand over mine, and for a moment, we just sat there quietly. No judgment. No blame. Just peace.
"Do you ever think about what kind of father you'll be?" she asked softly.
That question hit deep. I hadn't thought much about fatherhood — not seriously. I was still trying to heal, still trying to understand the man I had become. But as I looked at her, I realized something: this child was already giving me purpose.
"I don't know yet," I said honestly, "but I want to be better than yesterday."
She smiled. "That's all that matters."
Over the next few weeks, that small house became a place of recovery. Rebecca made sure I took my medication, helped me stretch, and walked with me around the yard every morning. Each day, I went a little further. Each step reminded me that I was still alive, still fighting.
We'd sit outside in the evenings, watching the sky change colors. She'd rest her head on my shoulder, and I'd talk to the baby as if it could already hear me.
> "You're coming into a messy world," I'd whisper, "but I promise you — you'll know love."
Rebecca would laugh, then say, "You sound like your father."
I'd chuckle too, though deep down I knew I was still learning what that meant.
There were hard days too. Some mornings, the pain came back stronger than before. Sometimes, I doubted myself, wondering if I'd ever be strong enough for both of them. But Rebecca was always there — calm, patient, and kind.
She'd remind me,
> "Healing takes time. You're doing better than you think."
And I believed her.
It wasn't a perfect life, but it was ours — a small space filled with hope, love, and second chances.
Time passed quietly at Rebecca's place. The weeks turned into months, and the air around us slowly changed. Her belly grew, and so did our hope. There were moments of fear, of course — what if things didn't go as planned? What if I wasn't ready? But every time doubt crept in, I'd place my hand gently over her stomach and feel that small movement inside. It was life reminding me why I was still here.
Rebecca handled everything with grace. She was strong, stronger than I ever gave her credit for. Even on her tired days, she found the strength to smile and say,
> "We're almost there."
I watched her closely during those months — the way she carried herself, the quiet determination in her eyes. It taught me something new about love. It wasn't just about words or promises; it was about showing up, day after day, even when you were scared or broken.
I started helping more around the house. At first, I was slow and unsteady, but Rebecca never complained. She'd laugh when I tried to cook, even when the food came out half-burnt. "You'll get there," she'd say. And little by little, I did.
The day finally came — early morning, still dark outside. I woke to her soft voice calling my name.
> "It's time," she said.
I froze. My hands shook. We'd been waiting for this moment, but now that it was here, everything felt unreal. I grabbed the small bag we'd packed days before and helped her to the car. The drive to the clinic felt endless. Every second felt like an hour.
When we arrived, the nurses rushed her in. I stood there for a moment, unsure if I should follow, my mind spinning. Then I heard her voice again — "Stay close."
So I did.
Hours passed. I paced the hallway, praying under my breath. And then, suddenly, a sound broke through the silence — a small cry, soft but powerful.
That first cry changed everything.
The nurse came out smiling, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in white cloth.
> "Congratulations," she said. "It's a girl."
My legs nearly gave in. I took her in my arms — my daughter, my miracle. Her eyes were still closed, her breathing soft. I felt something inside me shift, like a piece of my soul had been put back in place.
Rebecca looked exhausted but peaceful. She smiled at me and whispered,
> "Manessah Olerato."
Hearing that name again hit differently this time. It wasn't just a name anymore — it was a promise fulfilled.
I sat beside them, holding both her hand and our daughter's. For the first time in a long time, I felt whole.
That night, while Rebecca slept, I stayed awake watching over them. Every small movement, every tiny sound — I took it all in.
I thought about everything we'd been through — the blame, the pain, the distance, and the healing. Somehow, it all led us here.
In that quiet room, I whispered to my daughter,
> "You are loved, little one. Always will be."
And for the first time, I truly believed it.