The streets still scared me.
Even after a few weeks of walking to the shop on my own, the fear never completely left. I'd walk with one ear open to every sound — footsteps behind me, dogs barking, cars slowing down. But what I feared most wasn't people — it was my own body turning against me.
The thought of getting another seizure while walking alone haunted me. I'd imagine falling in the middle of the street, strangers staring, no one knowing what to do. That image replayed in my mind like a bad dream.
Rebecca noticed. She always did.
> "You don't have to rush," she'd tell me, holding my face in her hands. "Take it slow. Even if you don't go far, just step outside. That's enough."
Her words calmed me, but the fear still lingered in my chest like smoke that wouldn't clear.
Then one afternoon, everything shifted.
Joyce — Angela's mother — found out I was staying with Rebecca.
I didn't hear it directly from her. Word travels fast in the township. Someone mentioned it to Lungelwa, and that evening, as the family sat together after dinner, the air felt heavier.
Rebecca's mother sighed, wiping her hands on her apron.
> "Joyce came by the clinic today," she said quietly. "She's not happy. She said she never thought you'd move in here."
Rebecca froze mid-motion, her spoon resting on the edge of the bowl. I could see her jaw tighten.
> "And what did you tell her, Ma?" she asked.
> "I told her it's not my place to speak for grown people," Lungelwa replied. "You two are building your life. No one should interfere."
Her calm voice carried strength — the kind that ends arguments before they begin. Still, I could feel Rebecca's tension, the way her leg bounced under the table.
Later that night, when we were alone, she said,
> "She's going to talk, you know. Joyce always does. But let her. We've been through worse."
I nodded, though deep down, I couldn't help but feel uneasy. Angela had been a big part of my past — one that my heart had long buried, but others refused to forget.
The next few days were quiet. Every time I stepped outside, I felt eyes on me — not in anger, but in curiosity. People talked. They always did.
But through it all, Rebecca stood by me.
She'd hold my hand when we went out, her grip firm, her eyes forward. She didn't care who saw. To her, love wasn't something to hide — it was something to protect.
Uncle Sibusiso stopped by more often now. Sometimes he'd joke to lighten the mood.
> "Don't mind the noise," he said once. "People talk because their own houses are too quiet."
We all laughed, and for a moment, it felt normal again.
That night, as I lay in bed, Manessah sleeping peacefully beside us, I stared at the ceiling and thought about everything that had changed. My body was still healing. My heart still carried scars. But I wasn't alone anymore.
Even with fear in my steps and whispers in the air, I was still walking forward — one careful step at a time, surrounded by love that refused to break.
The call came on a quiet afternoon.
I was sitting under the tree, watching Tessa and Manessah play near the washing line, their laughter dancing in the wind. The phone rang inside the house. Rebecca picked it up first, then called out softly,
> "It's for you."
Her eyes said enough — she already knew who it was.
When I put the phone to my ear, the voice on the other end was familiar, but distant. Joyce.
She didn't sound angry — just tired. The kind of tired that comes from holding onto something too long.
> "I heard you're staying at Rebecca's now," she said, her tone sharp but calm.
"Yes," I answered quietly. "That's true."
There was a long pause. I could almost hear her breathing through the line.
> "I called to tell you," she continued, "that I won't ever come visit you again. Not there, not anywhere near her."
My throat went dry.
> "Joyce, please—"
> "No," she interrupted. "You made your choice. I just hope you remember your daughter."
And then the line went dead.
For a moment, the world went silent. Even the laughter outside felt far away. I just sat there, phone still in my hand, my heart sinking under the weight of her words.
I didn't move for a while. When Rebecca walked in, she saw the look on my face and knew something wasn't right. She came closer, touched my shoulder, and asked,
> "What did she say?"
I struggled to speak. "She said… she'll never come visit me again."
Rebecca didn't say anything at first. She just sat beside me, her hand resting gently on my knee. The silence between us said more than words ever could.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Angela's face — her small smile, her bright eyes, the way she used to run to me shouting "Baba!"
I wondered if she still remembered me. If Joyce would tell her about me kindly, or if I'd become just another story — a name she once heard but couldn't place.
Part of me wanted to leave, to go back and look for her. To fight for that connection. But every time I looked at Rebecca sleeping beside me, I remembered what peace felt like — the kind I'd been searching for all my life.
Leaving this home would mean walking away from the one person who stood by me through everything — the seizures, the fear, the silence from my own family.
I couldn't do that. Not again.
So I stayed.
And in that decision, I found strength.
Even if Joyce never came.
Even if Angela grew up far away.
I would still hold them both in my prayers.
Rebecca would wake up early the next morning and find me sitting outside, staring at the sunrise. She'd wrap her arms around me from behind and whisper,
> "Whatever happens, you're not alone."
And in that moment, I believed her.
Because even when life took pieces of me away, love kept giving me reasons to go on.