The next morning, the air was cool and quiet.
I stood in the yard holding a small plastic jug,
watering the plants Rebecca had planted months ago —
flowers that somehow survived through all the chaos we’d been living in.
My leg dragged slightly as I moved,
but my body felt lighter than in previous days.
The peace from the evening before still hovered around me.
Then I heard it:
“Mbijana!”
The nickname shot through me like a spark.
Only one person called me that.
I turned immediately.
There she was —
Connie.
My friend’s mother.
A woman who had known me since I was a child,
one of those mothers from the community
who didn’t just watch you grow up —
she grew with you.
A woman of prayer.
A woman of presence.
She walked toward me with a warm smile,
her church scarf tied ne
