Her words played in my head long after she left.
"Baby steps" … over and over again.
I didn't know how to feel or what to think.
I've been through hell and back — heartbroken by those I trusted most.
Family turning their backs on me, loved ones walking away,
and worst of all, my baby mothers cutting me out of my children's lives.
Sometimes it felt like I was standing alone in a storm that never wanted to end.
But hearing her say "baby steps" reminded me of something I had forgotten —
that healing doesn't happen all at once.
It comes in moments:
one breath at a time,
one prayer at a time,
one small reason to smile again.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling,
thinking about everything I had lost,
but also everything I had survived.
Maybe love wasn't supposed to be perfect.
Maybe it was just supposed to remind us that we're still alive —
that we can still feel, still hope, still dream…
And as sleep slowly pulled me in,
I whispered to myself,
"Baby steps… yeah, one step at a time."
---
It hit me — hard.
I left no stone unturned inside my heart,
trying to remember what it felt like to be loved
by someone my world once revolved around.
I was ignorant to admit the truth —
that I was afraid to love again.
Afraid of the pain,
afraid of losing myself,
afraid that the next person would only see the scars, not the man behind them.
But deep down, I knew… love was never my enemy.
Pain was.
And I couldn't keep running from something that once gave me life.
So, I told myself,
"If love comes again, I'll meet it halfway.
Not as the broken man I used to be —
but as someone who finally learned how to stand on his own feet."
That realization didn't erase the past,
but it gave me peace.
Peace to forgive,
peace to breathe,
peace to hope again.
---
Mr. Mabaso once told me,
"Heal on your own. It's going to take time, but stay true to yourself.
Take time to love again — because if you rush,
you'll lose yourself in the process.
You've come too far to break now."
Those words never left me.
They became a compass through every dark night,
every heartbreak, every moment I doubted my worth.
And now, looking back at everything I've faced —
the pain, the loss, the lessons —
I finally understand what he meant.
Healing isn't about forgetting the past.
It's about learning to walk again, even when it hurts.
It's about forgiving yourself for the things you couldn't control
and choosing peace over bitterness.
I wasn't born this way —
but I became this way through the storms I survived.
And maybe… just maybe,
that's what strength really is.
---
Rebecca saw how I was slowly getting my life back together.
I didn't force things anymore — I just focused on doing what felt right.
Whenever I could, I bought small gifts for Manessah — toys, clothes, even sweets —
and gave them to Joshua to deliver, since Rebecca lived just three streets away from mine.
It wasn't about showing off. It was about showing up.
I did the same for Angela, sending money to her grandmother whenever I could —
sometimes for food, sometimes for her crèche trips.
It made me feel whole again knowing I could still be part of their lives,
even from a distance.
I realized love isn't always about being there every day —
sometimes it's about being consistent, even in silence.
---
After that, I focused on rebuilding myself and finding purpose again.
I spent more time alone — not because I was lonely, but because I was learning to listen to my own silence.
The pain I once ran from started turning into lessons.
I stopped asking "why me" and started saying "thank you" —
because even through it all, I was still standing.
Each morning, I woke up with a plan —
to take one small step toward a better version of myself.
Whether it was helping around the house, visiting Mr. Mabaso,
or showing up for the rehabilitation programs Manana told me about,
I made it my mission to do something that made me feel alive again.
Slowly, my confidence came back.
I started walking without the stick more often,
talking with people, even smiling when I didn't feel like it —
because I knew healing wasn't just about my body,
it was about my spirit too.
Mr. Mabaso once said,
"Purpose is not something you find in the world,
it's something you rebuild inside you."
And that stuck with me.
For the first time in a long time,
I began to see light in places I once saw darkness.
And that light — no matter how small —
became my reason to keep moving forward.
---
With time, I started to understand that peace isn't something you search for —
it's something you create within yourself.
I stopped fighting battles that weren't mine to fight.
I stopped explaining myself to people who were already committed to misunderstanding me.
And I stopped chasing those who chose to walk away.
The noise in my head started to fade.
The anger, the guilt, the blame — they all became lighter each day.
I realized peace of mind doesn't come when life gets easier;
it comes when you get stronger.
I forgave my brothers, even if they never apologized.
I wished both of my baby mothers well,
because I finally understood — love isn't about ownership, it's about acceptance.
And most of all, I forgave myself.
For the mistakes, for the heartbreaks, for the nights I wanted to give up.
Because every scar I carry is proof that I survived what tried to destroy me.
Now, I walk with my head high —
not because I have everything figured out,
but because I've made peace with everything I've been through.
I wasn't born this way…
Life shaped me, tested me, broke me —
but it also rebuilt me into someone who knows his worth,
someone who knows that healing is not the end of the story,
it's the beginning of peace.
---
I froze where I stood, trying not to let her words cut too deep.
Her voice was sharp, broken — the kind of voice that carried both pain and pride.
She was drunk, yes, but she spoke like someone who hadn't healed.
"You forgot you were dying!" she screamed again,
her words echoing over the fence like thunder in a clear sky.
I wanted to answer — to remind her of everything I went through,
of how I fought my way back to life,
of how I never blamed her even when she left.
But I kept quiet.
Because silence was my peace now.
And I wasn't about to lose it over another argument fueled by old wounds.
I looked at her and saw not anger — but hurt.
A woman still trapped in her own war.
And for the first time, I didn't feel the need to fight back.
I just whispered,
"Rebecca… it's okay. I forgive you."
She paused for a second —
her face softened,
and without another word, she walked away.
I stood there under the night sky,
my heart heavy but calm.
That was the moment I knew I was finally free —
not from her,
but from everything that once held me hostage inside my own pain.
---
I kept thinking, after so many months… why now?
What did I do this time?
Life was finally beginning to make sense again.
I found a rhythm — peace in my quiet mornings, purpose in my small victories,
and strength in just being alive.
So why now?
Why did the past have to knock again — loud, messy, and drunk on pain?
Rebecca's words still echoed somewhere inside me,
not because I believed them,
but because they reminded me of how far I've come.
Maybe she wasn't angry at me.
Maybe she was angry at herself —
for loving a man who had to die inside just to be reborn.
I took a deep breath,
looked up at the sky,
and whispered to myself,
"Peace isn't the absence of noise — it's surviving through it."
And that's exactly what I did.
---
Chapter Thirty-Six (continued)
Later that evening, the peace I fought for turned into chaos again.
Rebecca came shouting from the gate —
"Mara is a better father than you!!!"
Before I could even gather myself,
she stormed straight into the house.
Her friend Hlengiwe was right behind her, trying to calm her down.
"You think you're better than me!!!" she screamed,
her voice trembling between anger and hurt.
I stood still for a moment, trying not to lose my temper.
Then asked softly,
"Rebecca… why are you doing this?"
No answer.
Just rage — bottled-up emotions spilling all over my small room.
Hlengiwe tried to pull her out,
but Rebecca wouldn't budge.
She grabbed my walker from the corner —
the same walker that once helped me take my first steps again —
and waved it at me like a weapon.
For a second, I froze.
Not because I feared her,
but because I couldn't recognize the woman standing in front of me anymore.
After a short struggle, Hlengiwe finally pulled her out the door.
Rebecca staggered off, still shouting,
and disappeared into the darkness with my walker in her hand.
She never brought it back.
Till this day… that walker remains gone —
just like the version of her I once loved.
I cried myself to sleep that night.
Not because of the words she said,
but because of what we had become.
Children were standing by the gate,
watching as Rebecca made a mockery of me —
the man she once said she loved.
I stood there frozen,
watching her wave my walker in the air like a trophy.
"You won't get it!" she shouted before walking away.
And just like that, she left me standing in the quiet,
alone at my place,
my heart sinking deeper into a silence that felt heavier than pain.
That night, I closed my eyes and let the tears fall —
not from weakness,
but from the weight of everything I had tried to hold together.
Sleep found me in the middle of my thoughts,
and the last thing I remembered
was her voice echoing in the dark.