Wounded warrior

A Mother's Tears

At first, I felt the hit straight in my chest — heavy, sharp, and unexpected. Those words kept circling in my mind like vultures: “Things are falling apart at your place.” It was the kind of message that could break a man already fighting to stay steady.

I walked back inside and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes. My heart was racing. I could’ve panicked. I could’ve rushed out without thinking. I could’ve let the fear swallow me.

But something inside me finally shifted.

For the first time in months, I told myself:

“Wait. Breathe. Don’t let other people’s chaos decide your peace.”

I took a slow breath. Then another. My hands were shaking, but my mind tried to anchor itself. I reminded myself of everything Rebecca and I had survived — the rumours, the distance, the physical pain, the emotional exhaustion. If any of that didn’t break me, this moment wouldn’t either.

I sat down outside on the step and let the air calm me. I didn’t react. I didn’t chase answers right away. I didn’t let fear rush me into decisions.

Instead, I told myself:

If something is wrong, I’ll face it when I’m ready.

I won’t allow someone drunk and careless to control my emotions.

I need to protect my peace — and Rebecca’s.

By the time I stood up again, the panic had softened. I wasn’t okay, but I wasn’t falling apart. I handled it by choosing calm instead of chaos — something the old me wouldn’t have been able to do.

And when I finally walked back inside, Rebecca looked at me with tired eyes, clueless about what had just shaken me. I didn’t bring the storm to her. Not that moment. Not when she needed my strength more than anything.

For once, I felt like I had won a silent battle within myself.

It wasn’t long before the meaning behind those drunken words revealed itself.

That afternoon, while Rebecca rested inside, I heard footsteps approaching the yard. When I stepped out, I saw two familiar faces pushing the gate open — my little brother Onnie and Joshua, the boy who became our adopted brother long before we understood what family truly meant.

They both looked tired, dusty, and uneasy, like they’d walked a long distance with heavy news in their chests.

“Bhuti…” Onnie said quietly, his eyes avoiding mine. Joshua stood beside him, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.

I greeted them and asked, “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

It was Joshua who spoke first, voice shaky.

“Your place… it’s not good there.”

I felt something shift inside me, but I kept my face still. “What happened?”

Onnie swallowed, his voice dropping. “Ma left three weeks ago. She went to visit our stepfather… and she didn’t come back.”

Three weeks. Three weeks without telling us. Three weeks while I was fighting seizures, numbness, depression, and recovery.

My throat tightened.

“And uncle Sibusiso?” I asked, hoping for at least one stable piece in the chaos.

Onnie answered without hesitation. “Uncle left last weekend. With his friend. He hasn’t been back.”

For a second, I genuinely didn’t know if the numbness in my chest was my injury acting up or pain I didn’t know how to process.

So that’s what the drunk man meant. Everything had fallen apart — not because of me, but around me. Without me even being there.

My home had become a shell. No guidance. No adults. Just the children left behind.

I lowered myself onto the chair in the yard, staring at nothing as the pieces rearranged themselves in my head.

My mother gone. My uncle gone. The boys left alone. And me… recovering in a different home, about to become a father.

Joshua finally lifted his head and said, “We didn’t know where else to go. So we came to you.”

And in that moment — despite everything breaking — I felt a strange responsibility settle on my shoulders. A weight that didn’t crush me this time… it shaped me.

Rebecca came out quietly, noticing the tension. She greeted them softly and stood beside me, her hand brushing my back, steadying me.

My heart was sinking, but somehow, I remained calm. Life had thrown another storm at me, but this time… I didn’t drown.

Rebecca stood there, one hand on her growing belly, the other resting gently on my back. At first, she didn’t say anything. She just watched the boys’ faces — the worry in Onnie’s eyes, the exhaustion in Joshua’s posture, the quiet fear they were trying to hide.

Then she slowly breathed in, as if collecting her thoughts, and stepped closer.

“Onnie… Joshua…” she said softly. “You’re safe here.”

The way she said it — not loud, not dramatic, just steady and sure — it made both boys finally look up at her.

She nodded for them to come closer, and they did.

Her eyes flicked to me, reading my soul like only she could.

She could see everything I was fighting:

She saw all of it… and she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she placed her hand fully on my back and said something that shook me:

“Baby… this is our family now. Whatever is broken out there, we fix it together.”

Her voice didn’t c***k. Mine almost did.

I looked at her — the woman carrying my daughter, the woman who saw me at my weakest and still held me up — and for the first time that day, I felt the ground under me again.

She turned to the boys.

“When last did you eat?” she asked.

“Yesterday morning…” Joshua whispered.

Rebecca didn’t hesitate. She wiped her hands on her dress, turned around, and marched into the kitchen.

A few minutes later she returned with two plates stacked like it was Sunday lunch: pap, chicken stew, and extra gravy the way boys like it.

She didn’t just give them food. She gave them dignity.

As they ate, she came to sit next to me. Not too close, not too far. Just close enough that her presence was an anchor.

“You see now?” she said quietly, only for me. “This is why God kept you alive. You weren’t meant to die. You’re meant to lead.”

I didn’t have an answer. My throat was too tight to speak.

So she took my hand — the same hand that trembled from the nervous system damage — and held it carefully, almost protectively.

“Your home is not lost,” she said. “It just found you here instead.”

And in that moment, everything inside me softened.

The fear. The doubt. The exhaustion.

All of it.

Rebecca wasn’t just reacting to the situation — she was stepping into it. Standing with me. Claiming the boys as part of us. Carrying more than just our unborn daughter… But the responsibility of a family that life had scattered.

I looked at her and realized:

That woman was my strength before I even knew I needed it.