The First Sign Of A Turning Point
1183 Words
After Khulile left,
My mind kept circling everything he said.
I couldn’t sit still.
I couldn’t focus.
My chest felt heavy with a mix of fear, hope, and confusion.
I dialed Angela’s grandmother.
She answered immediately.
“Hello, my boy.”
“Ma,” I said gently,
“I met with Uncle Khulile today.”
She went quiet,
surprised — maybe even relieved.
“He told me about Joyce,” I continued.
“But why didn’t you tell me, ma?
I had to hear it from him.”
Her sigh travelled through the phone.
“I didn’t want to add pressure on you,” she said softly.
“You’re healing… You have a new baby…
and I didn’t know how you would handle all that at once.”
Her voice shook slightly.
“But you deserve to know.
You’re her father.”
I rubbed my face with my hand,
feeling everything at once.
“Where’s Angela now?” I asked.
“She’s out with Joyce,” she replied.
“She wouldn’t give me the phone earlier.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I’ll call again.”
Hours passed.
Rebecca fed Olerato,
I helped with water,
trying to distract myself.
But my mind kept returning to Mpumalanga.
I checked my phone.
Then I saw it.
“Viewed by Joyce.”
My heart jumped.
She viewed my w******p status.
She didn’t block me anymore.
She didn’t ignore the updates.
And what made it even more meaningful?
The status she saw was photos of both my daughters —
Angela and Olerato.
My throat tightened.
Rebecca noticed the sudden change on my face.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
I turned the phone around.
She covered her mouth with her hand and smiled with her eyes.
“That’s… that’s something,” she whispered.
“It’s a start,” I said, barely breathing.
“It’s more than a start,” she corrected.
“That means she’s looking.
She’s watching.
Maybe she’s trying to understand…
to see how your life looks now.”
I sat down on the bed,
My hands shaking lightly.
Rebecca sat next to me,
One hand on my knee.
“You see, Tebelo,” she said softly,
“Joyce is coming around.
But don’t rush her.
Don’t push anything.
Let things unfold one step at a time.”
Her voice was calm, wise, steady.
“Focus on being a good father,” she added.
“To both your daughters.
Everything else will fall into place.”
I nodded slowly.
For the first time in a long time,
I felt hope without panic.
Light without confusion.
A future without fear.
Rebecca leaned her head on my shoulder.
And in that quiet moment,
with Olerato sleeping peacefully beside us,
I believed — truly —
that healing was possible.
I tried calling Joyce’s phone.
Honestly, I didn’t expect anything. Not a ring. Not an answer. Not even a “busy” tone.
But she picked up.
“Hello?”
Her voice was low… guarded… but not cold.
For a few seconds, I froze. My mind went blank. My heart jumped so hard I had to take a breath before speaking.
“Hey, Joyce… It’s me.”
“I know,” she replied softly.
Something in her tone surprised me — it wasn’t the defensive voice I had been used to. There was no anger.
No rush.
No edge.
Just… a human being talking.
We kept the conversation light. Talking about the weather, school reopening, the price of groceries, and random things that didn’t carry any emotional weight.
I didn’t want to push her. I didn’t want to dig. I didn’t want to bring up the wounds we still hadn’t healed.
Rebecca was sitting beside me, her eyes quietly focused on me, listening without interrupting. She kept making small gestures with her hands, guiding me… reminding me to stay calm, gentle, slow.
Joyce giggled once. Just once. It was small — barely noticeable — but I heard it. It felt like someone opened a window in a room that had been locked for years.
After a short silence, I asked:
“Where’s Angela?”
“She’s in the kitchen with her grandma,” Joyce replied. “Do you… Want to talk to her?
I can call her.”
My breath caught in my chest.
Joyce was offering.
Not avoiding.
Not resisting.
Not making excuses.
Offering.
“Please,” I whispered.
I heard the phone being lowered, Joyce calling her softly in the background.
My hands shook.
Rebecca squeezed my thigh gently — reminding me to breathe.
“Hello Baba, you and Mom are now talking…” She laughed softly — that innocent, pure laugh only a child can have.
I froze.
My mind went blank. My heart stopped for a second. I didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, or just hold my breath forever.
Then I heard another laugh in the background.
Joyce.
A real laugh. Warm. Unforced.
“Talk to your father, hau,” she said playfully, almost shy.
Something inside me loosened — a knot I had been carrying for months quietly softened.
I swallowed hard.
“Angela,” I said, my voice shaking, “how are you feeling today, sthandwasam?”
She giggled again.
“I’m fine, baba… I’m eating pap and meat. I told Gogo I want to talk to you.”
My eyes burned instantly.
Rebecca looked at me and her own eyes turned watery, her hand resting over her mouth as she watched me trying not to break down.
“That’s good, my baby,” I whispered. “I miss you every day.”
“I miss you too,” she said gently. “Mom said maybe you will come visit… will you?”
The room went silent around me. Even my heartbeat felt loud.
Joyce didn’t interrupt. She didn’t take the phone. She didn’t stop the moment. She let Angela speak. She let the bond breathe.
I squeezed the phone tighter.
“Yes, sthandwasam… I will come. I promise.”
“Okay, baba… I love you,” she said softly — and before I could answer, I heard Joyce whisper in the background:
“Tell him again properly.”
Angela giggled.
“I love you, baba!”
My voice broke completely.
“I love you too, my angel,” I managed to say.
Rebecca wiped her cheek quickly, pretending she wasn’t crying.
Then Joyce came back on the line.
“Thank you for talking nicely,” she said quietly. Her tone was… different. Softer. More trusting. Like a door had cracked open, even if just a little.
“You… you sounded happy,” I replied.
She didn’t deny it.
“We’re trying,” she said. “And Angela… she missed you.”
I closed my eyes and breathed out all the heaviness I had been holding.
“Joyce,” I said gently, “thank you.”
Silence. Not the tense kind — the kind where two people finally understand each other again.
“Okay, we’ll talk again,” she said softly.
And the call ended.
But something new had begun.
- Writer
