Morning came softly, with golden sunlight spilling through the thin curtains. The air felt different — lighter, cleaner, almost as if the night had washed away every heavy thought.
I sat up slowly, careful not to wake Rebecca and Manessah, both still asleep. Their calm breathing filled the room, a gentle reminder of everything I had to be grateful for.
I got up, slipped on my slippers, and made myself a cup of tea. The smell of it filled the kitchen — warm, simple, and comforting.
As I stepped outside the door, the fresh morning breeze brushed against my face. It was cool and gentle, carrying the smell of damp soil and distant flowers. I stood there for a while, holding my cup, taking small sips, just breathing it all in.
The world around me felt alive — birds calling in the distance, children's laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the street.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel trapped by my worries. My body felt light. My mind calm. I whispered quietly,
> "Thank you, God… for another day."
The tea warmed my hands as I looked around the yard — the same place where I'd once felt broken, now holding a peace I never thought I'd find again.
I thought of how far I'd come — from the hospital visits and long nights of pain, to standing here on my own two feet again, feeling alive.
Behind me, I heard the door creak open. Rebecca's soft voice called, half-awake, "You didn't even say good morning."
I smiled, turning around to see her standing there, wrapped in her blanket.
"Good morning, love," I said, handing her the cup.
She took a sip, smiled back, and leaned against me.
"It's a beautiful day," she said.
And it truly was.
For once, I wasn't thinking about the past or the pain.
Just this moment — the breeze, the warmth, the life still inside me.
---
Chapter Fourteen [continued]
After finishing my tea, I placed the cup on the small table by the door and walked toward the garden. The air was still cool, the sun just beginning to climb higher.
I turned on the tap, and the soft hiss of water filled the morning silence. The hose came alive in my hands, spraying a fine mist across the green leaves and small patches of soil. Drops sparkled like little diamonds under the sunlight.
There was something healing about it — watching life grow right before my eyes. Each leaf, each flower, seemed to carry its own story of survival.
Behind me, I heard a familiar giggle. I turned to see Manessah, crawling across the yard in her little pajamas, eyes full of joy.
"Hey, my sunshine!" I called, lowering the hose so the water danced gently on the ground near her. She clapped her tiny hands, smiling wide as the cool mist brushed her face.
Rebecca watched from the doorway, smiling too. For a moment, it was just us — no pain, no worry, no past. Just peace.
I crouched down beside Manessah, letting her tiny fingers touch the wet grass. She looked up at me and laughed again, and my heart melted.
It was in that simple moment I realized something — healing wasn't only happening in hospitals or through medicine. It was happening here, in these small, quiet mornings, in my daughter's laughter and Rebecca's smile.
I turned off the tap and picked Manessah up, holding her close. The warmth of her little body against mine reminded me of why I kept pushing forward.
Rebecca joined us, resting her head on my shoulder.
"See?" she said softly. "You're doing better every day."
I nodded, feeling her words sink deep inside me.
The sun climbed higher, washing the yard in gold.
For the first time in a long time, I truly believed her.
I was still holding Manessah when I heard a voice calling from the other side of the fence.
"Mbijana!"
I turned around without hesitation. It was Mama Connie, the neighbor next door — a woman of God, my mother's dear friend, and someone who had known me since the day I was born.
Her smile carried warmth that I hadn't felt from anyone outside our home in a long time. She walked closer to the fence, her Bible tucked under her arm.
"This is the Mbijana I know," she said with a proud look in her eyes.
I smiled, setting Manessah on my hip. "Mama, I'm trying," I replied softly.
She nodded. "You're not just trying, my son. You're healing. God's hand is on you."
Her words touched something deep in me — something I hadn't realized was still searching for hope.
We talked for a few minutes. She told me how she'd been praying for me ever since she heard what happened, and how happy she was to finally see me outside again, smiling and walking strong.
Before she left, she looked me straight in the eyes and said,
"My boy, this Sunday, I want you to come to church. Come give thanks. Sometimes, healing needs both medicine and prayer."
I didn't know what to say at first. For a moment, I just stood there, watching her walk away down the street.
Rebecca came out of the house, curious about who I was talking to.
"That was Mama Connie," I said, smiling faintly. "She invited me to her church on Sunday."
Rebecca's face lit up. "You should go," she said. "Maybe it's time."
I looked down at Manessah, who was now playing with a leaf she found near her feet.
"Yeah," I whispered. "Maybe it is."
The wind picked up gently, rustling through the trees. For the first time, I felt ready — not just to heal my body, but my spirit too.
Saturday night settled softly over the house. The sound of crickets echoed outside, and a faint breeze carried the smell of fresh earth from the garden.
Rebecca stood by the ironing board, pressing my clothes with care. The hiss of steam filled the room. I sat nearby, watching her in silence, feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time — peace.
She looked up and smiled. "You have to look sharp for church tomorrow," she teased gently, folding the shirt neatly.
I smiled back. "You know, I already feel blessed — even before going."
She paused, looked at me, and nodded. "That's what faith does. It starts before you even step through the door."
I leaned back in my chair, letting those words sink in. From the moment Mama Connie invited me, something inside me shifted. It was like a light had been switched on, guiding me toward something greater than myself.
Rebecca finished ironing and laid my outfit across the chair — clean, pressed, and ready. "There," she said softly. "Now you'll walk in looking like the man God is healing."
I couldn't help but smile wider. "Thank you," I whispered.
Before bed, I checked on Manessah, who was fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath. I stood there for a moment, whispering a quiet prayer — not for miracles, but for strength, peace, and the chance to keep being the father she needed.
As I lay down next to Rebecca, I felt a calm I hadn't known in months. Tomorrow wasn't just another Sunday — it was the beginning of something new.