Wounded warrior

Healing In Silence

Rebecca watched from the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron as my uncle disappeared down the street.

The last streaks of sunlight hit his back — that slow, heavy walk of a man carrying too much pride to show emotion.

When I turned around, Rebecca’s eyes were already full of questions she didn’t ask.

Instead, she just stepped aside, letting me walk back in.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I didn’t answer right away. I sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at my shoes, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me again — the word permanent, the silence from my family, the distance in people’s eyes whenever they saw me.

Rebecca came and sat beside me. She didn’t touch me at first. She just looked at me long enough for me to feel seen.

“Your uncle looks like a good man,” she said quietly.

“He is,” I whispered. “He just doesn’t know how to show it anymore.”

She nodded slowly. “None of them do, hey? It’s like… people love you until you break. Then they don’t know what to do with you.”

Those words hit hard. I turned my head toward her. She looked away, blinking fast.

“They talk about me too,” she continued, her voice trembling. “They say I should’ve never come near you again. That I brought you bad luck. That I’m just here because I feel guilty.”

I clenched my hand, the weak one that refused to open, and forced the words out:

“I don’t care what they say.”

Rebecca turned to me then, her eyes wet, but fierce.

“You better not,” she said. “Because I didn’t come back out of guilt. I came because you’re the father of my child. Because when everyone else ran, you still tried to walk. Even broken, you tried.”

Her voice cracked on that last line, but she didn’t look away.

Then she reached for my hand — the stiff one — and held it firmly between both of hers.

“Listen to me,” she said, almost whispering. “You are not damaged goods, Tebelo. You’re recovering. There’s a difference. You survived what was meant to kill you. And now you’ll learn how to live again.”

I felt something loosen in my chest. For the first time in weeks, the air felt lighter.

She stood up, straightened the blanket on the bed, and looked at me again.

“Your uncle might pass by again,” she said with a small smile. “Next time, I’ll make sure he comes in for tea.”

I smiled faintly. “You’d do that?”

She shrugged playfully. “He looks like he needs someone to remind him you’re still alive.”

That evening, as the night crept in and the sounds of the township softened into distant chatter and dogs barking, I sat alone outside the room, watching the stars.

For once, I didn’t feel completely abandoned.

Maybe people had changed.

Maybe family turned their backs.

But right there, in Rebecca’s yard — with her voice echoing softly from inside —

I realized something powerful:

I wasn’t fighting alone anymore.

And maybe… that was enough to keep going.

Rebecca’s belly began to show more clearly as the weeks passed. At first it was just a slight roundness under her loose T-shirts, the kind she tried to hide when people passed by. But soon, even when she stood behind the kitchen counter, you could see the gentle curve that made her walk a little slower and breathe a little deeper.

Every morning, she complained jokingly about how her shoes were starting to rebel against her feet. And every evening, she’d call me to “feel this one,” placing my hand on her stomach when the baby kicked or turned or simply refused to settle.

There was something healing in those moments — the quietness, the promise, the future moving beneath my palm when the present felt too heavy to carry.

Meanwhile, my body was its own battlefield.

Some days, my right hand obeyed me. Other days, it felt like a stranger attached to my arm — stiff, slow, numb in places I couldn’t explain. I walked carefully now, not because of pain, but because I was afraid of falling the way I had before. A simple step felt like a risk. A sharp turn felt dangerous.

Rebecca noticed everything. The way my fingers curled when I didn’t want them to. The way I reached for walls or doorframes when I stood up too quickly. The way my eyes followed the ground more than the sky.

She made it her mission to help me without making me feel helpless.

If I struggled with a button on my shirt, she looked away like she wasn’t watching. If a cup slipped from my hand, she pretended the cup was slippery and blamed the soap. If my leg stiffened, she’d pause our conversation and simply say, “Breathe. Don’t rush. We move when your body says move.”

Her pregnancy grew — and with it, her strength. My recovery dragged — but with it, my determination grew too.

On some mornings, she’d stand in front of the mirror, rubbing cocoa butter onto her belly. I’d sit on the bed behind her, feeling the stiffness in my shoulder slowly giving in to stretching.

“Look,” she’d say, lifting her shirt slightly. “You see baby is sitting too low today. I think this one is stubborn like you.”

I’d laugh, and the sound would surprise me — because laughter had become rare.

We formed a rhythm.

She’d go to the clinic for checkups. I’d go for my follow-up appointments. Nhlanhla would escort me like a proud younger brother, rapping softly to himself the whole way.

At night, Rebecca would place my weak hand on her stomach deliberately. Almost like she was trying to remind my body what it was still capable of feeling… and reminding my heart what it was still capable of loving.

Recovery wasn’t fast. Some days I woke up feeling like I had gone back two steps. Other days, a small improvement felt like a victory — my hand opening a little wider, my leg not locking, my speech flowing smoother.

But through it all, Rebecca and the baby became the quiet engine pushing me forward. Her pregnancy grew like a steady sunrise. And my healing — slow, frustrating, uneven — followed it like the reluctant light behind a cloud.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t look frightening.

It looked possible. It looked real. It looked… ours.