— Choosing Strength
The next morning, I woke up earlier than everyone.
For a moment, the memories of last night tried to drag me back into that darkness — Joyce's silence, the unanswered calls, the fear that Angela might grow up thinking I didn't care.
But I refused to let that pain win.
I looked over at Manessah still sleeping, tiny breaths, tiny hands curled into fists — trusting this world completely. And I said quietly to myself:
"She deserves the best version of me."
I got up, washed my face, and stepped outside just as the sun was rising — the whole sky painted with gold and orange. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, letting that fresh morning air fill the empty spaces inside me.
Today, I would not drown in what I couldn't control.
Today, I would show up.
When Manessah woke up, I took charge — fed her, changed her, played with her. Her laughter was like medicine, healing places no doctor could reach.
She crawled toward me, holding her arms up, calling "Dada!" — that little voice giving me strength I forgot I had.
Rebecca watched us, smiling.
"You're a good father," she said softly.
I didn't answer right away.
Because for a long time, I didn't feel good enough for anything.
But as I lifted my daughter into the air and she giggled like the world was perfect, something shifted inside me.
Maybe God gave me this second chance for a reason.
Later, I helped around the yard — watering the garden, fixing things that needed fixing. Every small task felt like stitching my life back together. Step by step. Day by day.
Not every moment was easy — sometimes the ache returned.
Sometimes I wondered if Angela sat somewhere wishing for me the same way I wished for her.
But pain stopped being my master.
It became my reminder:
💛 I love my daughters.
💛 I am still here.
💛 And I have a purpose.
I promised myself — whether Angela is close or far — I will become a man she would be proud to call her father.
Just like the one holding Manessah in his arms right now.
One day, both of them will look at me and see a survivor.
A fighter.
A father who never stopped loving them.
---
— The Bucket Test
It started as a simple morning routine.
I walked to the tap with my cup of tea, like I always did. But today, something inside me whispered:
"Try."
The big plastic bucket sat there — the same one I had avoided for months because my right hand just wouldn't cooperate. That hand had become a reminder of the day my life almost ended. A reminder of weakness. A reminder of fear.
But not today.
I reached out slowly. My fingers wrapped around the handle. My arm trembled as if it already knew the fight ahead.
For a second, I almost let go — the doubt screaming louder than my courage.
Then I heard tiny footsteps behind me.
Manessah, standing unsteady but determined, her eyes wide and curious — watching her father.
I couldn't back down.
I tightened my grip. Took a deep breath.
And lifted.
The weight pulled at muscles that had forgotten their purpose. My shoulder burned like fire. My arm shook like a leaf in the wind. But the bucket was rising — inch by inch — against everything that once tried to break me.
Rebecca opened the door just in time to see it.
Her hands covered her mouth, eyes filling with tears.
"You're doing it…" she whispered.
I didn't say anything — not a word — because I was afraid that if I spoke, the emotion would spill over and I'd collapse.
But inside, I was shouting:
"Look at me now!
I'm still here!
I'm coming back!"
I placed the bucket down, gently, carefully. My hand let go, still shaking from the effort.
But I stood tall.
Stronger than before.
Stronger than fear.
Stronger than the memory of that hospital bed.
Rebecca hugged me — tight — as if she was hugging my victory itself.
And little Manessah smiled proudly, like she understood everything.
In that quiet yard, with the sound of water dripping from the bucket…
I felt alive.
Not surviving.
Living.
And I knew — this was only the beginning of my comeback.
---
— The Mirror Trick
Physiotherapy was never easy.
Every exercise reminded me of what I lost — and what I had to fight to regain.
One day, my therapist placed a long, clean mirror on the table.
"Put your right hand behind the mirror," she said. "Let it hide. And keep your left hand where you can see it."
I did as she instructed.
My weak right hand lay half-curled and stubborn behind the mirror, the hand that had forgotten how to be a hand.
She slid the mirror directly between them — a perfect line separating who I had been… and who I was now.
"Now," she continued, "look only at the reflection of your left hand. Move your fingers — one by one — and focus on the mirror like it's your right hand doing it."
It sounded strange… almost like magic.
I stared at the reflection.
Five strong fingers. Obedient. Alive.
I lifted my left thumb slowly…
The reflection showed a right thumb rising.
My mind struggled.
It wanted to believe the lie the mirror told.
Then — a twitch.
A tiny signal in my right hand.
Barely visible… but real.
Hope rushed through me so fast it almost hurt.
The therapist nodded.
"There it is. Your brain just remembered something."
We continued.
Index finger.
Middle finger.
Each command like knocking on a locked door…
Hoping something inside would answer.
Some movements failed.
Some barely happened.
Some brought frustration so loud I wanted to walk out.
But the mirror stayed.
The reflection showed the man I was — not the one I feared becoming.
With every session, the twitching became movement.
Movement became control.
Control became strength.
The therapist smiled one afternoon as I successfully tapped all my fingers against the table — slowly, shaky, but mine.
"You see?" she said.
"You're teaching your right hand to believe again."
I never thought a simple mirror could rebuild a life…
But there I was — learning to lift, touch, hold, and live again.
Sometimes healing isn't loud.
Sometimes it's a quiet battle fought sitting at a table…
Just you, a reflection, and a promise that you're not done yet.