The days had settled into a rhythm — quiet mornings, laughter from the yard, and evenings filled with stories. But what I didn't expect was how close I'd grow to Nhlanhla.
He became my shadow. If I was sitting under the tree, he'd pull a chair next to mine. If I walked to the shop, he'd offer to carry the bread. It wasn't about errands anymore — it was the bond forming between us. Something that didn't need words to exist.
I started calling him my boy, and he called me grootman.
It started as a joke one day when he came home from school, full of attitude and teenage confidence.
> "How was school?" I asked.
"Eish, grootman, you know these teachers," he said, shaking his head.
I laughed so hard, I nearly dropped my cup. "Grootman, huh? You make me sound old!"
> "No, not old," he said seriously. "Just… wise."
From that day, the name stuck. Even now, he still calls me that.
We'd sit outside most afternoons, and I'd tell him little pieces of my life — not to brag, but to teach.
> "You always have a choice in life," I'd tell him. "Even when things go bad, the choice is still yours. But remember — every choice has consequences."
He listened, nodding slowly, like he was storing every word somewhere safe.
One day, he asked softly,
> "Grootman, what happened to your hand?"
I hesitated for a moment, looking at the stiff fingers that no longer obeyed me. Then I decided he was old enough to know.
"I almost lost my life," I said quietly. "Someone stabbed me in the head. I woke up a different man after that. My hand stopped working, and for a long time, my spirit almost stopped too."
He looked at me, eyes wide, full of shock and sadness.
> "Did it hurt?"
I smiled faintly. "Not as much as what came after — losing people I loved, fighting to walk again, learning to live with what's gone."
He went silent, thinking deeply. Then he said something that caught me off guard.
> "But you didn't give up."
That hit me hard. Because he was right — I didn't. Even when I wanted to, life refused to let me go.
From that day, he treated me differently — not out of pity, but respect. He became more protective, more caring. Sometimes, I'd catch him watching me while I struggled to button my shirt or pick something up, and before I could ask for help, he'd already be there.
> "Let me do it, grootman," he'd say.
It made me proud, and a little emotional, to see the kind of man he was becoming — kind, patient, grounded.
Rebecca would tease us, saying,
> "You two talk like old men on a stoep somewhere."
Maybe she was right. But in those moments, under the fading sun, passing on bits of my story to a young soul willing to listen, I felt a kind of healing that no medicine could give.
Nhlanhla reminded me that life keeps going — that even after pain, there's always someone watching, learning, carrying your lessons into their own tomorrow.
And when he'd run off after our talks, laughing and calling out,
> "Later, grootman!"
I'd smile, my heart full. Because I knew — a part of me was already living on through him.
Time has a way of teaching without words.
I watched Nhlanhla grow from a loud, playful schoolboy into a young man with focus in his eyes. He carried himself differently now — shoulders straight, mind sharp. Everything he did, he did with care, from helping his mother fetch water to doing his schoolwork late into the night.
There was something about him — that quiet discipline that comes from learning through example, not lectures. He didn't talk much about his dreams anymore, but I could see them growing behind his calm face.
One afternoon, he came to me after school, holding his report card.
> "Here, grootman," he said, handing it over proudly.
I took it, scanning the neat rows of marks. He'd done well — really well. I looked up at him and smiled.
> "I'm proud of you, my boy. You're doing better than I ever did at your age."
He grinned, scratching his head shyly.
> "You taught me to always make the right choice," he said. "Even when no one's watching."
Those words hit me deeper than he knew. Because maybe that's what all of this was about — passing on something good, even when life had taken so much away.
As the months went by, life softened around the edges.
My hand still didn't work the same, and the fear of seizures never truly disappeared, but I had learned to live with it — to move slower, to appreciate the calm days, to accept help when it came from love.
Then one evening, as I sat outside watching the sky turn gold, the phone rang again. Rebecca answered, her voice lighting up. She turned to me and whispered,
> "It's Joyce."
For a second, I froze. We hadn't spoken in weeks. The last time, she had let Angela speak briefly, but her own tone was still distant — cautious.
When I took the phone, her voice was gentler this time.
> "Tebelo, it's me," she said. "Angela's been asking about you again."
I closed my eyes, letting the words sink in. "She has?"
> "Yes," Joyce replied. "She wanted to know how you're doing. I told her you sounded stronger."
For the first time in a long while, I heard something new in Joyce's voice — not anger, not bitterness… just peace. Maybe time had softened her too.
> "Thank you for telling her," I said quietly. "And thank you for calling."
She hesitated, then added,
> "I'm not saying everything's perfect, but… you sound happy where you are. That matters."
I didn't know how to respond. I just smiled through tears I didn't want to fall.
We talked a little longer — small things, light things — and before she hung up, she said,
> "I'll tell Angela to call you tomorrow."
When the call ended, Rebecca came out and sat beside me. I didn't have to explain. She could see it in my face — the peace settling in.
> "It's getting better, isn't it?" she said softly.
I nodded. "Slowly… but yes. It is."
That night, I watched Manessah and Tessa playing in the dim light, while Nhlanhla helped Lungelwa in the kitchen. And I thought about how love keeps stretching itself across distance — through broken families, healed wounds, and the spaces between words.
Angela might have been far away, but she was reaching out again.
And here, under this roof, I was surrounded by people who taught me that family isn't always about where you come from — it's about who stays and who helps you keep standing.
As the stars came out, I whispered to myself,
> "Maybe life didn't go the way I planned… but it went the way it was meant to."
And for once, I truly believed it.