After Mama's burial, my father came home briefly. He stood by her grave, silent, distant, almost like a visitor in our own home. When he left again, he didn't take us — he left us to the mercy of life itself.
The days that followed were unbearable. My siblings looked at me for answers I didn't have. We struggled to eat, to live, to smile. But then, two weeks before Mama died, someone had walked into my life — a quiet, kind-hearted man who helped when I didn't even know how to ask.
He was there during her illness, bringing food, praying with us, and standing by me through every tear. I didn't know then that he was God's answer to a prayer I hadn't even prayed.
After Mama's death, he never left. He helped me gather the pieces of my shattered life. I pushed him away at first, afraid to trust again, but he stayed. Day after day, he reminded me that even in ruins, God still builds new beginnings.