A couple of days passed.
I called Rebecca early in the morning —
straight to voicemail.
I didn't stress at first. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe her phone died. There was always a simple reason.
Later that afternoon, I tried again.
Still no answer.
That's when something inside me shifted.
Rebecca always called me back. Even on her worst days, even when she was drunk or angry — she never went to bed without saying goodnight.
But now… nothing.
I kept staring at my phone, refreshing the screen as if a missed call or message would magically appear. My heart started pacing faster than my mind could think.
What could possibly be wrong?
Something wasn't right — and for the first time in a long time, I felt a new kind of fear creeping in.
---
The next morning, I tried again.
This time… someone answered.
"Hello?"
A man's voice.
My entire body went cold. For a moment, I couldn't breathe — I just stared at the phone, making sure my eyes weren't lying to me. I checked the screen twice:
Rebecca — the same number I saved years ago.
I didn't know whether to speak or hang up. A thousand questions rushed through my head all at once. Who is this man? Why is he answering her phone? Where is Rebecca?
My heart skipped painfully —
because deep down…
I knew this wasn't good.
---
His voice wasn't strange — it was familiar. Too familiar. Like someone I've looked in the eyes before.
"Who's this?" I asked, already fearing the answer.
He didn't pause.
"It's Mara."
My blood boiled instantly.
"What are you doing with Rebecca's phone this early?" I snapped.
He mumbled something I couldn't make out. My patience ran thin.
"Give Rebecca the phone. Now."
I leaned forward, supporting myself with my right hand, my feet hanging over the edge of the bed… bracing for whatever came next.
---
He spoke with confidence, like he belonged there.
"She's out buying breakfast with Manessah," he said.
I just sat there… stunned.
Trying to process what I'd just heard.
I knew Mara — he was always hanging around at Rebecca's place.
They were all Xhosa-speaking, older, familiar faces in the yard.
A friend… or so I believed.
But now he answered her phone.
He knew where she was.
He talked like he had a right to.
I didn't show it, but inside…
I didn't believe a single word.
What was really going on?
---
Whenever I tried to call, Rebecca was always out of reach.
And the few times she did answer… the wind played in the background.
She was never indoors.
Never settled.
Never home.
Something wasn't right — and my heart knew it before my mind did.
So I asked around… just a little.
Just enough to learn the truth.
And what I found hit me like a second seizure—
Rebecca wasn't staying at her old place anymore.
She was suddenly renting a room
somewhere close to my own home.
Hidden.
Secretive.
Surrounded by voices that didn't care whether I lived or died.
That's when everything inside me went quiet.
---
My mother finally got bailed out of prison.
She didn't come home right away —
she went to stay with my stepfather until the dust settled.
And honestly… that was the best news I'd heard in a long time.
Because for the first time in weeks,
I could breathe.
Knowing she was safe.
Knowing she wouldn't sleep another night in a cold cell.
Knowing someone responsible was watching over her.
A heavy weight lifted off my shoulders.
All the stress that had been breaking my body… eased just a bit.
But even in that relief…
there was still a storm brewing inside me.
About Rebecca.
About Mara.
About the silence between us that felt louder than any words.
I chose not to chase chaos anymore.
I needed to protect my healing —
the same healing she once begged me to fight for.
So I distanced myself.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Painfully.
---
My aunties refused to let me lock myself away in silence.
They said healing doesn't happen in darkness — it needs movement, people, laughter, sunlight.
So they came up with a plan:
Three days at Palesa's…
then a few days at Kgauhelo's…
then back again.
Each home had its own warmth —
different smells, different routines, different love.
I appreciated it.
I really did.
But the truth was harder:
Every time stress found its way back into my head…
my body followed.
Those episodes —
they didn't care where I was
or who was watching.
One moment I'd be sitting under the tree with family,
the next
the world would fade to black
and I'd wake up to worried faces and cold cloths on my forehead.
It was a reminder I couldn't escape:
I was better… but still not free.
Still, I tried to stay positive.
I forced myself to smile.
I reminded myself —
"You survived worse. Don't go backwards now."
Healing wasn't a straight line.
It was a fight.
Every single day.
---
Mamutsi was different from the others.
She didn't talk much,
didn't ask how I was doing,
didn't try to distract me with jokes or stories
like Palesa and Kgauhelo always did.
At first, I didn't notice.
I told myself she was just quiet by nature.
But the longer I stayed…
the more obvious it became.
The house felt colder.
Time moved slower.
Days stretched like they were refusing to end.
Sometimes she would stare at me —
not with care,
but with something like disappointment…
or fear.
If I tried to start a conversation,
she'd give short answers, then look away.
I began to wonder:
Was I a burden to her?
Did my condition make her uncomfortable?
Did she think I was just pretending to be strong?
Being there made my mind loud.
Too loud.
At night, lying awake,
every thought became an enemy:
Rebecca drifting away…
My mother still not home…
The episodes…
My brothers acting like I was already gone…
At Mamutsi's place,
healing felt far away again.
I started counting the hours —
wishing the sun would rise faster
so I could move on to the next house…
or anywhere else.
The silence didn't give me peace.
It suffocated me.
---
It finally came out.
She sat across from me, arms folded,
eyes avoiding mine like she was speaking to the wall.
"Tebelo… you should go back home,"
she said — slow and careful,
like she was tiptoeing around the real reason.
She mentioned problems with her boyfriend,
Ta Rich doesn't like too many visitors,
things are tense…
money is tight…
She talked and talked,
but every sentence felt like the same message:
"You are not welcome here."
I just listened.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't argue.
Because the truth was louder
than anything she was trying to hide.
I could feel my chest tightening,
my throat burning…
but I refused to cry in front of her.
I stood up, thanked her for everything,
even though my heart was breaking.
She didn't hug me.
Didn't even walk me to the gate.
As I stepped outside,
the door closed behind me instantly —
like she couldn't wait for me to disappear.
Walking away,
I whispered to myself:
> "God, please… don't let bitterness stay in my heart."
I wasn't angry at her.
Just hurt.
Because someone who once called me family
now saw me as a burden.
---
The day before all of that happened…
Ta Rich knocked gently and stepped into the room where I was resting.
He sat down, looked me straight in the eyes and said:
> "You are welcome here.
Stay as long as you need.
You made the right choice to come heal,
to be away from the place of the incident."
His voice was calm, sincere.
Those words felt like a blanket over a shivering heart.
I believed him.
I trusted his kindness.
But then the next day,
Mamutsi, the one I least expected,
was already pushing me out.
That's when it hit me:
I wasn't a problem to the house…
I was a burden to her.
Suddenly everything made sense —
her silence, her distance,
the way she avoided being alone with me.
I kept replaying the contradiction:
One person opening the door wide for me…
and another, secretly wishing I'd never walked in.
Still, I didn't lash out.
Didn't blame her.
Because a lesson was rising inside me:
> "Even the ones you love
can break your heart without meaning to."
So I picked up my bag,
carried my pain with dignity,
and prepared myself to move on once again.