Rebecca sat next to me on the bed that evening, Olerato asleep on her chest, her tiny breaths rising and falling like peace itself.
She looked at me — not with judgment not with pity but with that deep, steady love she always carried.
“I know how comments about Olerato make you feel,” she said softly, her hand resting on my thigh.
“But she’s still your mother.”
Her voice wasn’t defending my mother. It wasn’t telling me to forget the hurt. It was simply reminding me that blood is complicated, and healing doesn’t erase the past — it just teaches you how to live with it.
Before I could speak, she added:
“Olerato is heaven sent. And you know that better than anyone.”
And she was right.
I looked at my daughter again — her tiny fingers curled, her cheek pressed against Rebecca’s chest.
