Wounded warrior

The Father Who Came In Silence

After a few days of adjusting to having Onnie and Joshua around, Rebecca started seeing deeper into the situation — the gaps, the silence, the missing pieces.

One evening, while she was folding baby clothes on the bed, she looked up at me and asked:

“Tebelo… what about Edward?”

The question hit me like a cold breeze.

Not because I hadn’t thought of him — I had — but because thinking about him always came with complications.

I sighed, rubbing my forehead.

“Edward…” I muttered.

“He’s… he’s always on my mother’s side. You know him. Loyal to her no matter what. If she said leave here, he would leave. If she said stay far… he’d stay far.”

Rebecca nodded slowly, understanding without judging.

She knew family politics had never been simple for me.

“So he won’t come here?” she asked gently.

I shook my head.

“He won’t. Even if things are falling apart at home, Edward will stick next to her shadow. That boy would rather sleep hungry than come somewhere she didn’t send him.”

Rebecca exhaled softly, then sat beside me on the bed.

“Okay,” she said.

“But what do we do now? These two need stability… and you’re still recovering.”

I looked at her belly, round and full with our daughter.

I looked at the two plates from earlier still drying on the rack.

I looked at my stiff hand resting on my leg.

The truth settled heavy in my chest.

“We… we give them what we can,” I said quietly.

Rebecca waited.

“The little we have… they can take it to my place,” I continued.

“So at least they can cook for themselves. Onnie knows where everything is. Joshua is practically part of the family. They’ll survive.”

Rebecca studied my face, searching for signs of doubt.

Then she nodded.

“Alright,” she agreed softly.

“If that’s what will help… then let’s do it.”

There was no hesitation in her.

No fear.

No irritation that my life came with layers of responsibility.

She just accepted it — all of it — because she understood one thing deeply:

Family wasn’t about perfection.

It was about showing up when things fall apart.

We gathered what we could:

some potatoes

half a bag of rice

two tins of baked beans

the leftover pap flour

cooking oil

a small bag of onions

and even Rebecca’s favorite soup mix, which she placed in the bag quietly when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I noticed though.

I always noticed.

Before the boys left, Rebecca pulled Onnie aside.

“Make sure you lock the gate at night,” she told him like a mother.

“And don’t let strangers in. You hear?”

“Yes, sisi Rebecca,” he said shyly.

Joshua hugged her — an awkward, gentle hug — and whispered:

“Thank you, mama.”

She froze for a moment, touched deeply, then smiled and patted his shoulder.

They left carrying the bags, looking a little taller, a little less lost.

And as the gate closed behind them, Rebecca came to stand next to me on the veranda, resting her head on my shoulder.

“You did the right thing,” she whispered.

Maybe I did.

Maybe I didn’t.

But with her beside me, for the first time in days…

I felt like I could breathe again.

That evening, after the boys left, the house felt unusually quiet.

Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting over her stomach, her fingers tracing soft circles around the shape of our unborn daughter. I could see she was thinking — the kind of thinking that happens in silence, not with words.

When I came back from locking the gate, she watched me with an expression I hadn’t seen on her before — not fear, not stress, not worry.

Something softer. Something emotional.

I sat beside her, my stiff leg stretched out, my hand curled the way it always was. She lifted her eyes to me, and they were glimmering.

“Rebecca… what’s wrong?” I asked softly.

But instead of answering, she shook her head and wrapped her arms gently around my shoulder from the side, resting her cheek on me.

“You don’t even see it,” she whispered.

“See what?”

“How you take care of people…” Her voice cracked slightly. “How you… step up even when you’re the one who needs help.”

I swallowed hard.

She continued, her words trembling but sincere:

“Most men in your situation would think only of themselves. They would be angry… bitter… closed off. But you — with everything you’ve been through — you’re still worrying about your brothers. Still thinking of their stomachs before your own. Still wanting them safe. Still trying to make a home for them even from here…”

Her hand slid slowly to my chest.

“That’s a father,” she said softly. “A real one.”

I felt my throat tighten.

Not from pride — but from the realization that someone finally saw me.

Not the broken body. Not the trauma. Not the trembling hand or stiff leg.

But the man inside, still fighting.

Rebecca looked at me again, her eyes filled with emotion.

“Tebelo… when I saw you give them food… when I heard you worry about them before worrying about how little we had… something inside me just…” She exhaled deeply. “It made me feel like our daughter… she’s going to be safe. Because she’ll have a father who cares. Not just for her — but for everyone around him.”

Her voice cracked again, this time with tears.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

The words hit deeper than any pain I’d felt since the stabbing — because they healed something inside me.

Slowly, she leaned in and kissed my forehead, her hand sliding down to hold my good hand.

“You’re going to be a great father to her,” she said. “And I want her to grow up watching you… learning from you.”

I looked at her, stunned.

“Rebecca…”

She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, laughing at her own tears. “It just made me emotional. Sorry. Pregnancy hormones.”

But we both knew it wasn’t just hormones.

It was love. Respect. And hope returning to a story that had seen too much darkness.

In that quiet moment, sitting on the bed with nothing but candlelight flickering against the wall, Rebecca saw the father I was becoming — and I finally allowed myself to believe in him too.