Days passed after Joyce's call, but her words stayed with me.
They echoed in my head like an unfinished conversation — one I couldn't walk away from.
I couldn't stand the thought of losing Angela.
No matter how far she was, she was still my daughter. My blood. My reason for wanting to get better.
So one evening, when the house was quiet and Rebecca was putting Manessah to sleep, I sat by the small table in our room and took out an old notebook. My left hand shook a little as I wrote — my right one still useless since the injury — but I had to get the words out.
I began the letter slowly, choosing each word with care.
---
"Dear Joyce,"
I know you're angry, and maybe you have every right to be. But please, hear me out. I didn't leave because I wanted to walk away from my family or from Angela. I left because I couldn't live alone — not in the state I was in.
After being stabbed, I was a man half alive. My right hand doesn't work anymore. Some days I can't even trust my own body not to fall apart. I needed care, not pity. And that care came from Rebecca and her family. They took me in when no one else would. They nursed me through seizures, through nights I couldn't even feed myself.
I'm not asking you to forgive me for moving on or for staying where I found peace. I'm only asking for one thing — to still be a father to Angela. Please don't let her grow up thinking I didn't want her. Tell her I love her. Tell her that even when she's far, she's never forgotten.
You and I may never see eye to eye again, but I hope you understand I didn't choose Rebecca over my child. I chose survival. I chose life.
Sincerely,
Tebelo
---
When I finished, my eyes burned. I hadn't realized how much I'd been holding inside until I saw it all written down — the guilt, the longing, the love that never faded.
Rebecca found me sitting there, the pen still in my hand.
> "You're writing to her?" she asked gently.
I nodded. "I just need her to know my side. For Angela's sake."
She came closer, resting her hand on my shoulder.
> "That's the right thing," she said softly. "Speak your truth. That's all you can do."
The next day, Uncle Sibusiso stopped by, and I asked him for a favor — to help send the letter. He didn't ask questions, just nodded and said,
> "You did the right thing, my boy. No father should stay silent when his heart is crying."
After he left, I sat quietly under the tree again, feeling both empty and relieved. The words were out there now, beyond my reach. All I could do was wait — and hope that Joyce would read them not as excuses, but as the truth from a man still learning to stand.
Rebecca joined me later, sitting beside me without saying a word. Manessah toddled over, climbing into my lap, her small hands exploring my face.
And in that moment, I realized — no matter what answer came, I was still a father.
To one near, and to one far away.
To love that stayed, and to love I still prayed for.
For months, I heard nothing from Joyce.
Each day that passed without her call felt like a door closing slowly. I tried to tell myself I had done my part — written my truth, laid my heart bare. But silence can be cruel. It makes you question whether your words ever reached the right place, or if they were just lost in the wind.
Still, I kept hoping.
Life in Lungelwa's home carried on quietly. Rebecca was back to her routine — mornings filled with the sound of pots and laughter, afternoons spent tending to Manessah, who was growing fast and learning to call everything she touched "mine."
There was another voice that began to brighten my days — Nhlanhla, Rebecca's younger brother.
He was a schoolboy, full of energy and curiosity. A little taller than Tessa, with that restless spark in his eyes that reminded me of my younger self. Somehow, he had taken to me — maybe because I was always around, or maybe because he saw in me a kind of strength I didn't even notice anymore.
Whenever I called his name, he'd come running.
> "Nhlanhla!"
"Yes, bhuti?"
"Please run to the shop and get me airtime," I'd say, handing him a few coins.
> "Okay, bhuti!"
And before I could blink, he was already halfway down the street.
He'd come back panting, smiling wide, proud of every small favor he did. Sometimes I'd hand him a slice of bread or a cold drink as thanks. Other times, he just sat beside me under the tree, telling stories about school — how his teacher shouted when he forgot his book, how he dreamed of becoming a mechanic one day.
> "Cars never complain," he said once. "You fix them, and they move. People… people are harder."
I laughed harder than I had in a long time. That boy had wisdom beyond his years.
It was around that time, just when I'd accepted Joyce's silence as my new reality, that the phone finally rang again.
Rebecca answered first, her voice steady but curious. Then she turned to me and mouthed, "It's Joyce."
My heart thumped as I took the phone. Before I could say a word, I heard Joyce's voice — softer than before.
> "I thought I should let you speak to her."
And then… another voice came on the line.
Tiny, bright, unsure — but unmistakable.
> "Baba?"
Everything inside me froze. My eyes burned instantly. "Angela… is that you?"
> "Yes, Baba. Mommy said I can talk to you."
I swallowed hard, holding the phone with trembling hands. "My baby girl," I whispered. "I've missed you so much."
> "I miss you too," she said shyly. "Are you better now?"
For a moment, words failed me.
I wanted to tell her everything — how I was getting stronger, how I thought of her every day, how I kept her photo near my bed. But all I could manage was,
> "Yes, my love. I'm much better now."
The call didn't last long, but it was enough. Enough to remind me that not all doors stay closed forever.
After I hung up, Rebecca smiled at me from across the room, tears glistening in her eyes. She didn't need to ask who it was — she already knew.
That night, as the stars blinked softly above the yard, I sat outside with Nhlanhla beside me. He was eating bread and telling me about his day, but my mind was far away — replaying Angela's voice in my head over and over again.
> "Baba… are you better now?"
Those words became my medicine. My reason to keep healing.
I looked at Nhlanhla and smiled. "You know," I said, "you remind me a little of my daughter."
He grinned proudly, crumbs on his chin. "Then I'll look after you for her," he said.
And in that moment, surrounded by this new family, I realized something simple but powerful:
Sometimes love doesn't come from where you expect — but it always finds you when you need it most.