Days went by quietly, but something in the air felt different.
Whenever I tried calling Joyce, her number rang endlessly, or went straight to voicemail. At first, I told myself she was busy — maybe at work, maybe with Angela — but after the third, fourth, fifth time… I knew something wasn't right.
The silence between us started to grow heavier. I replayed our last conversation over and over, trying to find what I might have said wrong. She'd sounded calmer then, even kind. So why the sudden distance again?
Then one afternoon, while sitting under the tree in Rebecca's yard, a neighbor from back home came by. He didn't stay long, but what he said stayed with me for days.
> "Word is," he whispered, "someone's been calling Joyce… telling her things about you. That you never loved her. That you've moved on for good."
My heart dropped.
> "Who?" I asked quickly. "Who would say that?"
He just shrugged, avoiding my eyes. "You know how people talk, grootman. Some folks can't stand seeing another man at peace."
When he left, I sat there, lost in thought. My chest felt tight — not from anger, but from hurt. After everything I had survived, after finding a small piece of calm, gossip had found a way to reach the one person I was trying to make things right with.
I tried calling Joyce again that night. No answer.
The next day — same thing.
It was like she had vanished behind a wall I couldn't climb.
Rebecca noticed the shift in me.
> "You haven't eaten again," she said gently.
I forced a smile. "Just not hungry."
But she could see through me.
She always could.
> "You can't fix what people break with lies," she said quietly. "Only time will show her the truth."
Her words helped a little, but not enough to silence the ache. Because deep down, I feared Joyce might believe them — that my silence, my distance, my healing somewhere else, could be twisted into betrayal.
That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, I sat on the back steps of the house. The moon was bright, lighting up the garden. I closed my eyes and whispered,
> "I never stopped caring. I just didn't know how to be everything at once."
And though nobody answered, I hoped somehow Joyce could feel it — through the air, through the quiet, through the bond we still shared because of Angela.
--
Chapter Nine (continued)
Days turned into weeks, and still, Joyce never called back. I stopped trying after a while — not because I didn't care, but because hearing the unanswered ring was starting to hurt more than silence itself.
Then one late afternoon, just as the sun was setting behind the trees, my phone rang.
The name that appeared on the screen made my heart skip a beat — Kholisiwe, Joyce's mother.
I took a deep breath before answering. "Hello, Mama Kholi," I said softly.
Her voice came through, calm but heavy.
> "Tebelo, what's going on between you and Joyce?"
I opened my mouth to explain, but before I could get a word out, she continued,
> "Listen… whatever the two of you are fighting over, please, don't forget about Angela."
Her tone changed — gentle, almost pleading.
> "She still needs her father. No matter what's said, or who's angry, she's your child. Don't ever let the noise from grown people make you forget that."
And just like that, the call ended. No goodbye. Just silence.
I sat there, holding the phone, her words echoing in my mind. She still needs her father.
For a moment, I didn't know whether to cry or smile. Because even in her brief call, Mama Kholi had reminded me of what truly mattered — not the rumors, not the distance, not the things I couldn't control… but Angela.
Rebecca found me sitting quietly, phone still in my hand.
> "Who was it?" she asked.
> "Angela's grandmother," I replied. "She told me not to forget my place in my daughter's life."
Rebecca nodded slowly, her eyes warm.
> "Then don't," she said. "Keep showing up — even if it's from far away."
That night, I wrote Angela's name on a piece of paper and placed it beside my bed. It was my reminder — that no matter what the world said, no matter who turned away, I would never stop being her father.
Because sometimes, love isn't proven by being there every day — it's proven by never giving up, even when the world makes it hard to stay connected.
The days grew longer, but the silence from Joyce stayed the same.
I still tried calling from time to time — maybe once a week, sometimes twice — hoping she'd finally pick up. But she never did. Each unanswered ring chipped a little piece off my heart. She was the mother of my child, someone I once shared laughter and dreams with. I couldn't just switch that off.
When the sadness got too heavy, I'd call Mama Kholi, hoping she might pass the phone to Joyce. But most times, she'd answer gently and say,
> "She's not here right now, Tebelo."
Other times, she'd sigh softly before adding,
> "I don't want to be caught in between, my son."
Then she'd hang up, leaving me staring at my phone, fighting the same question that had no answer — what did I really do wrong?
But there was one thing that kept me standing — Angela.
Our bond grew stronger with every small chance we got to talk. Sometimes it was just a short call, other times she'd tell me about school or what she wanted for Christmas. Her voice always lifted me, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
> "Daddy, I got a gold star for reading," she said once, her voice full of pride.
I smiled so wide Rebecca laughed from across the room.
> "That's my girl," I told her. "I'm proud of you, Angel."
After the call, Rebecca sat beside me and said softly,
> "You should send her something for Christmas — something that reminds her you're always thinking of her."
She always knew how to guide me without judgment. That evening, we went through the local shops in town, picking out a small dress, a pair of shoes, and a soft teddy bear — Rebecca helping me choose the colors.
> "This one," she said, holding up a yellow dress. "It looks like sunshine — just like Angela's smile."
When we got home, I wrapped everything carefully, making sure it looked just right. On the tag, I wrote:
> To my little star, Angela. With love, Dad.
It wasn't much, but it meant everything to me.
For the first time in a long while, I felt peace — knowing that even if Joyce shut me out, Angela still knew her father cared.
Rebecca smiled as she handed me the package the next morning.
> "You're doing the right thing," she said. "Love never goes unnoticed — not by a child."
And she was right. Because love doesn't always need to shout. Sometimes, it just needs to keep showing up — even through distance, silence, and pain.
A few days after I sent Angela's Christmas gift, I received a "please call me" message.
The number looked familiar — it was Mama Kholi's.
Without wasting time, I dialed back.
She picked up on the second ring, her voice carrying that warm, motherly tone.
> "Angela," she called softly in the background, "come, your father is on speaker."
Then I heard it — that tiny, smooth voice I'd been longing to hear.
> "Hello, Daddy!" she said, her voice bright and full of life.
For a moment, I couldn't even speak. My throat tightened, and I smiled through the silence.
> "Hey, my Angel," I finally said, "how are you, baby?"
> "I'm fine," she replied quickly. "Thank you for the dress and the teddy bear. I love them so much! I want to come see you."
Her words hit me straight in the heart. I turned to Rebecca, who was sitting nearby, and even she paused, her eyes soft with emotion.
I swallowed hard before answering,
> "I'll send your mother money for transport, my girl. I miss you too."
There was a pause — the kind of silence that feels too heavy for a child to carry — and then, from the background, I heard a voice I knew too well.
> "I'm not going anywhere near there!"
It was Joyce. Her tone was cold, full of anger that time hadn't healed.
I froze. My heart sank. Angela went quiet too, probably sensing the tension she didn't understand.
Mama Kholi stepped in quickly, her voice calm but firm.
> "Alright, that's enough," she said in the background. Then back to me, softly,
"Don't worry, Tebelo. She heard your voice. That's what matters."
The line stayed quiet for a moment longer, and then Angela whispered,
> "Bye, Daddy. I love you."
I managed to smile, even as tears ran down my face.
> "I love you more, my Angel," I said. "Always."
When the call ended, I sat there, phone still in my hand, the sound of her voice replaying in my mind.
Rebecca came closer and placed her hand gently on my shoulder.
> "At least she knows you're still there," she said softly. "That means everything."
And she was right.
Because even though the distance and anger still stood between us, love had found a way to speak — if only for a few short minutes.
That night, I went to bed with peace in my heart. For the first time in a long while, I didn't dream of pain or loss — I dreamed of my daughter's voice saying, "I want to come see you."
And that was enough to keep me going.