I never wanted Rebecca or Manessah to see me broken like that again.
They had already seen me fight through enough — the sleepless nights, the seizures, the moments when I almost gave up. But this kind of pain was different. It lived deep inside, hidden behind quiet smiles and forced laughter.
Still, Rebecca's family never left my side.
They were there through it all — checking on me, including me in every meal, every prayer, every small piece of normal life. They made me feel like I belonged, even when my mind was somewhere far away.
I started spending more time with Manessah, my little princess.
She had this way of lighting up the whole room with her laughter, reminding me what joy sounded like. Whenever she called me "Daddy", it filled the empty space that distance from Angela left behind.
Over time, I learned Kholisiwe's work schedule by heart.
Every day, I'd check the clock, waiting for the right hour to call — right after she got home from work. That way, I had a better chance of speaking to Angela.
It wasn't much, but it was something. And sometimes, that's all a father needs to keep going.
One quiet morning, the sun still soft through the curtains, I sat beside Rebecca on the veranda. She was peeling apples — my favorite, the green ones — for Manessah's lunchbox.
I watched her for a while before speaking.
> "Rebecca," I said quietly, "I just wanted to thank you."
She looked up, smiling faintly. "For what?"
I took a breath. "For everything. For being there for me when no one else wanted to be. For helping me find my feet again. For standing by me through my darkest chapters."
She stopped peeling and looked at me with eyes that held both strength and gentleness.
> "You don't have to thank me," she said softly. "That's what love is — it stays, even when things fall apart."
Her words sank deep into me. I realized then that healing wasn't just about getting stronger — it was about learning to appreciate the people who refused to walk away.
Rebecca reached for my hand and gave it a light squeeze.
> "You're not the same man you were when you came here," she said. "You've grown. You're still standing."
And she was right.
Through all the pain, the rumors, the sleepless nights, and the distance between me and Angela — I was still standing.
Maybe not whole, but still here.
Still fighting.
Still loving.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.
---
Chapter Eleven [continued]
I'd be lying if I said I didn't dream about the day my two princesses would finally meet — Angela and Manessah.
I imagined them laughing together in the yard, maybe chasing after Nhlanhla with a ball, or sitting on Rebecca's lap while she braided their hair. I imagined them knowing each other, knowing me, and understanding that no matter how complicated life became, love was what tied us all together.
But life has a way of reminding you how fragile that dream can be.
It was late one night — the kind of quiet where you can hear your own heartbeat. The lights were off, and Rebecca was already fast asleep beside me. I lay there, staring into the dark, lost in thoughts about my girls.
Then suddenly, something felt off.
It started as a strange numbness crawling up my left side. I tried to turn, to call Rebecca's name, but no sound came out. My voice was trapped somewhere deep inside my chest.
I wanted to reach for her — to tap her shoulder, to do something — but my body refused to move. My hand wouldn't listen. My legs felt heavy. And in that still, terrifying moment, I realized what was happening.
Another seizure.
My body locked up, trembling. My heart raced so fast it felt like it was trying to break free. My eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling as my mind screamed for help. But the room stayed silent.
I could see Rebecca's silhouette beside me — peaceful, unaware. I wanted to wake her, to tell her I was slipping, but all I could do was fight to breathe through the waves taking over me.
Time blurred. It felt like forever, even though it was probably just minutes.
When it finally eased, I lay there drenched in sweat, breathing hard, tears filling my eyes. My body was weak, but my mind was awake — shaken to the core.
I turned slowly, reaching for Rebecca's hand, needing to feel something real, something alive. She stirred a little, half asleep, and squeezed my hand gently — maybe sensing that something wasn't right.
And in that darkness, I whispered in my heart,
> "Thank you for being here… even when you don't know what I'm fighting."
As sleep slowly pulled me back under, one thought stayed clear in my mind — I can't give up now. I needed to keep fighting. For Rebecca. For Manessah. For Angela.
Because one day, I still wanted my two princesses to meet — and see the father who never stopped trying to stay alive for them.
The morning light crept through the thin curtains, painting soft stripes across the room. I sat at the edge of the bed, still feeling weak, my thoughts heavy from the night before.
Rebecca stirred beside me, stretching slightly before noticing the look on my face. She frowned, eyes narrowing with worry.
"Babe, what's wrong?" she asked softly.
I hesitated. I didn't want to worry her. But I also couldn't keep it from her anymore.
"I… I had another seizure last night," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her face changed instantly — confusion first, then fear.
"What? Why didn't you wake me?" she asked, her voice shaking.
"I tried," I said, looking down. "But I couldn't move… I couldn't speak."
Rebecca covered her mouth with her hands, tears welling up in her eyes. Within seconds, she was crying — not loud, but the kind of quiet cry that comes from deep inside.
"You can't keep doing this to yourself," she said through the tears. "You need to stop worrying so much. For our daughter's sake… for Angela's sake too!"
Her words hit me hard because she was right. I'd been carrying too much — the pain, the guilt, the distance from my first daughter, the endless what-ifs.
She leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, still sobbing. I held her, weakly but tightly, whispering that I was okay now — though deep down, I wasn't sure I believed it.
Just then, her mother, Lungelwa, came in through the slightly open door.
"Rebecca?" she called softly, but the sight of her daughter's teary face made her stop mid-step.
Rebecca quickly wiped her eyes, pretending to fix the bedsheet, but it was too late.
"What's going on here?" Lungelwa asked, her tone calm but firm.
I looked away, not wanting to cause worry, but Rebecca spoke before I could.
"Mom, he had another seizure last night," she said, her voice cracking.
For a moment, the room went quiet. Lungelwa walked closer, her face filled with concern, but she didn't panic. She just nodded slowly, sat down beside me, and said quietly,
> "You've come far, my son. Don't let fear take you back."
Those words stayed with me.
Rebecca sniffled, still trying to compose herself, and her mother placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"We'll get through this," Lungelwa said firmly. "Together."
And for the first time that morning, I believed her.