I focused only on the things that didn't steal my peace.
That's what Mr Mabaso taught me — to protect my mind before anything else.
One afternoon, as we sat outside enjoying the evening breeze, he looked at me thoughtfully and said:
> "My son… you need to go see your father."
I froze.
My biological father.
A man who had never raised me.
A man whose absence shaped my childhood.
A man I didn't know how to feel about.
Mr Mabaso continued gently:
> "When you were at your lowest… after the incident… he came.
He stood by your bed.
A father doesn't show up in the dark unless he feels the light is slipping away."
I didn't know what to say.
All those years of unanswered questions… suddenly stood right in front of me.
Why would he care now?
Why when I was broken?
Why when the pain was already written into my bones?
But Mr Mabaso placed his hand on my shoulder:
> "Forgiveness is not for him.
It's for your healing."
That night, I lay awake — not from fear… but from a strange new feeling:
Hope.
Maybe seeing him wouldn't change the past…
But maybe it could change me.
— The Journey That Became a Goodbye
Mr Mabaso drove me to my father's town.
The road felt longer than the distance — every turn filled with memories I didn't have.
But when we finally arrived…
Everything had changed.
New houses.
New streets.
New faces.
Nothing looked like the little pieces I was told about growing up.
We asked around — people pointed us left and right — but still, no luck.
The place where my father once lived… felt like it had been erased.
I went home with questions still heavy in my chest.
Three days later… my phone rang.
A woman's voice — unfamiliar, shaking.
> "Are you Tebelo?"
"Yes."
"I'm… your father's wife."
Silence swallowed me.
Then the words I never imagined would come:
"Your father passed away last week."
My heart stopped.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't breathe.
He was so close…
and yet I was too late.
All those thoughts I prepared — the questions, the forgiveness, the pain —
they disappeared with him.
And the only thing that remained was the truth:
I never got the chance to ask him anything.
I never got the chance to say I'm your son.
I never got the chance… to say goodbye.
---
The news hit me like a lightning bolt.
I dropped onto the nearest chair, chest tight, vision blurred.
Every heartbeat felt like it was pounding against a wall I couldn't break.
I couldn't cry at first.
I couldn't speak.
All I could do was sit there… and feel the weight of everything I never said pressing down on me.
Mr. Mabaso knelt beside me, his presence steady, unshakable.
He didn't rush me. He didn't try to fill the silence with words I wasn't ready to hear.
He simply placed a hand on my shoulder and said:
> "It's okay to grieve.
It's okay to feel the loss — even if it's too late.
But don't let it destroy you."
His voice was calm, yet firm, carrying the kind of authority only someone who has seen life's worst can give.
He reminded me that regret cannot undo the past, but it can teach me to live better in the present.
Slowly, I allowed myself to cry.
The tears I had held back for years — over my body, over Rebecca, over Angela, over the people who had hurt me, and now my father — poured out like a river finally freed.
Mr. Mabaso stayed with me the entire night.
He didn't give advice I wasn't ready to take.
He just held the space for me to feel everything… and reminded me that healing is not forgetting, but learning to carry the pain without letting it break you.
By the morning, I felt lighter.
Not healed… not yet.
But strong enough to know that life doesn't wait for us to be ready.
We have to rise, even when our hearts are shattered.
And that day, I promised myself:
I would keep moving forward — for Manessah, for Angela, for Rebecca, for me.
---
I discovered that Joyce — the same woman who had blocked me from Angela, poisoned her heart against me, and made my life unbearable — had been the one searching for my little sister, Relebohile, on Facebook.
She told Relebohile about my incident, how close I had come to death, and how my life had changed since then.
That was how my father, Richard, had known about me — and why he had come after the incident, even though he had never been present in my life before.
It was a mix of shock, gratitude, and disbelief.
Shock — because Joyce, the very person who caused so much pain, was also the link that brought me closer to a part of my family I never knew existed.
Gratitude — because through her actions, my father had finally stepped into my life, even if it had been for too short a time.
Disbelief — because life had a way of twisting people's actions into something both painful and meaningful.
Mr. Mabaso looked at me, seeing the storm behind my eyes.
> "Life is strange, my son. People will hurt you and help you… sometimes at the same time.
The key is to see the lesson — not just the pain."
And in that moment, I realized:
Even the people who wounded me… even the circumstances that broke me…
had also led me to moments of connection, understanding, and growth I could never have imagined.
I didn't forgive Joyce yet — not fully — but I began to understand the complexity of life.
And with that understanding, I felt the first flicker of peace in a long, long time.
---
Mr. Mabaso repeated one lesson over and over to me:
> "Do one thing at a time, and do it with purpose — that's how you win in life."
And when the following Saturday arrived — the day of my father's funeral — he stood by his word.
He drove me himself.
He didn't want me facing that moment alone.
It was my first time meeting my father's side of the family.
Their faces were full of curiosity, sorrow, and questions they didn't know how to ask.
A man they admired and respected — my father — had always spoken of me quietly, with regret.
Some of them stared at me as though they were trying to match my face to a memory they never got to have.
Others hugged me without waiting for an introduction — as if love could make up for lost years.
His wife looked at me with both grief and warmth, saying,
> "He wanted to see you again. He spoke about you."
Those words hit deep —
I stood there feeling both found and lost at the same time.
I watched them bury a man who gave me half of my life…
yet I barely knew him.
I felt something new that day — a different kind of pain:
Not the pain of being hurt…
but the pain of what could have been.
But through all that heaviness, Mr. Mabaso kept his hand on my shoulder.
Grounding me. Guiding me.
He whispered,
> "This chapter is not the end — it's a beginning you didn't expect."
And for the first time in a long while…
I believed him.
---
After my father was laid to rest, we drove back to the house where he had lived.
It was quiet… a heaviness still lingering in the air.
Mr. Mabaso was talking calmly with my mother, while Sibongiseni stood close to me — unsure what to feel.
Just as we were about to leave, a young woman approached me.
Her voice soft, almost careful:
> "My mother wants to talk to you."
I turned and saw two women walking toward us — one older, one about my age.
She smiled warmly and said,
> "Hi, I'm Kgauhelo — your aunt. And this is your cousin, Malefu."
Hearing that — your aunt — felt unreal.
Like discovering a missing piece of myself I didn't know was gone.
Kgauhelo looked at me with tears forming in her eyes.
She gently touched my arm and said:
> "You look exactly like your father."
I froze for a second —
those words hit different.
They filled a void I'd carried for years without understanding it.
Then she continued:
> "Please, let me introduce you to your family."
She took the lead, guiding me forward…
and for the first time in my life —
I walked into a room full of people who shared my blood.
Some stood, surprised.
Some smiled instantly, welcoming me without hesitation.
They hugged me like they were hugging my father through me.
They asked how I'd been, how I was recovering, how life had shaped me.
And in those faces — I saw connection.
Not judgment.
Not old wounds.
Just family…
finally reaching for me.