As soon as we stepped out of the hospital, my phone rang — it was Rebecca. Her timing was perfect.
"Hey, love," I said, answering with a smile.
She didn't waste any time. "What did the doctor say?" Her voice carried that soft worry I'd come to know — part fear, part love.
I took a deep breath and said, "He said I'm not getting worse. I just need to stop stressing and not be too hard on myself."
For a moment, she went quiet. Then I heard a sigh of relief on the other end.
"Thank God," she whispered. "You don't know how long I've been waiting to hear that."
Her voice alone lifted me even higher. "I'll tell you everything when I get home," I said, smiling. "But tell your mom the doctor's happy with my progress."
"Okay," she said softly. "We'll be waiting."
---
As I ended the call, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time — peace. My chest wasn't heavy anymore. I walked toward the taxi rank with confidence, every step lighter than the one before.
Beside me, Nhlanhla walked proudly, like he had just accomplished something big.
"Grootman," he said, grinning, "please tell my mom when we get home that I must escort you every time. She must know I'm serious."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You really enjoyed this, huh?"
He nodded, his smile wide. "Of course! You my brother-in-law now — I have to make sure you're safe."
His words warmed me more than he could ever know. I couldn't wait to tell them everything — how the doctor said I was improving, how I just needed to stay calm and focus on healing.
As we waited for the taxi, I looked up at the clear blue sky.
For the first time in a long while, I wasn't afraid of what was coming next.
---
The ride home was calm. The taxi hummed softly, passing familiar streets, faces, and corners that once carried pain. But today felt different. The doctor's words still echoed in my head — you're not getting worse… just take it easy.
As I looked out the window, my thoughts drifted to my daughters.
Angela… Manessah.
I wished I could tell them both about my progress, about how things were finally looking brighter. I wanted them to know their father was fighting — not giving up, not losing hope. Maybe one day, when they're older, they'll understand how much I thought of them, even on my hardest days.
Nhlanhla was quiet beside me, earphones in, bobbing his head to music. Every now and then, he'd look over and smile — that warm, brotherly smile that said everything was going to be okay.
---
When we reached the house, Rebecca was already waiting by the gate. As soon as she saw me, she hurried forward, relief written all over her face.
"How did it go?" she asked.
I smiled. "Everything's fine, love. The doctor says I'm improving. I just need to stop stressing so much."
Her shoulders dropped, the tension melting away. She hugged me tightly, whispering, "Thank you, God."
Behind her, Lungelwa stood with her calm presence, watching us with a faint smile.
"So, what did he say?" she asked.
I handed her the paper from the hospital. "He's happy with my progress, Mama. No major changes — just says I need to rest more and keep my mind clear."
She nodded. "That's good, my son. You see? All these prayers are working."
Then she turned to Nhlanhla. "And you, my boy, did you look after him well?"
Nhlanhla grinned proudly. "Of course, Mama. I even told him you must send me with him next time too."
Everyone laughed — even I did. It felt good to laugh again.
---
That night, as we all sat together, I watched Rebecca feeding our daughter, while Lungelwa prepared tea in the kitchen.
I felt surrounded by peace — the kind of peace I hadn't known in years.
I whispered to myself,
> "If only my girls could see me now."
Not out of sadness, but out of hope — that one day, both of them would see the man I was becoming. Not broken, but healing. Not defeated, but still standing.
That night, the house was quiet. The only sound came from the soft ticking of the wall clock and the gentle breathing of Manessah, asleep beside us. The small light from the passage shone faintly through the door, just enough to paint a calm glow over the room.
I was lying back against the pillow, my arm around Rebecca, her head resting on my chest. She was half-asleep, her hand resting over my heart like she was making sure it was still beating steady.
I could feel her breathing slow and even, the kind of peace that only comes when everything finally feels right — even if just for a moment.
My mind drifted as I stared at the ceiling. The doctor's words played softly in my head: You're not getting worse. Stop stressing. Take it easy.
I smiled to myself, thinking of how far I'd come — from not being able to walk properly, to now holding the woman who stood by me through it all.
I looked down at Rebecca. "You know," I whispered softly, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."
She stirred a little, eyes still closed, her voice sleepy. "Don't say that," she murmured. "We're in this together."
That made my chest tighten — not from pain, but from gratitude.
I turned my head slightly, watching Manessah in her peaceful sleep. Her tiny hand was curled around her blanket, her little chest rising and falling. I reached over gently and brushed her hair back.
I thought about Angela too — my first little princess. I wondered what she was doing, if she was asleep, if she still thought of me sometimes. I prayed silently that one day both my girls would meet, and we could all share one roof, one laugh, one moment together.
Rebecca moved slightly, whispering without opening her eyes,
> "What are you thinking about?"
"Our girls," I said softly.
She smiled in her sleep, her hand tightening slightly on my chest. "They'll both know how much you love them," she said, her voice fading as she drifted back into deep sleep.
I stayed awake a little longer, listening to their breathing — hers calm and slow, our daughter's soft and steady.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt whole.