Wounded warrior

Rebecca

After Rebecca walked away that day —

forced away,

Pushed away,

Blocked away —

Something inside me snapped.

Not in anger.

Not in rage.

In purpose.

I couldn’t speak.

I couldn’t run.

I couldn’t even stand without holding onto the walls like a newborn calf.

But I could want.

And wanting her…

Wanting my daughter…

Wanting my life back…

Was enough to spark a war inside my body.

That evening, after everyone had gone inside,

I stayed in the yard alone,

Leaning against the wall with my forehead pressed to the bricks.

The sun had already dipped behind the houses,

Leaving a faint orange glow in the sky.

I thought of Rebecca’s tears.

Of her trembling smile.

Of her whisper:

“For our daughter.”

That sentence became my heartbeat.

I lifted my arm from the wall —

Just for a moment —

testing my balance.

My knees wobbled violently.

My right leg stiffened.

My entire body felt like it would collapse.

But I refused.

I placed my left foot forward.

A small step.

Very small.

Barely a shuffle.

But it was mine.

The second step hurt.

My hip twisted awkwardly.

My ankle trembled as if it would snap.

I grabbed the wall again before I fell.

Failure tried to whisper in my ear:

You can’t walk to her.

You’re broken.

You will never reach your child.

But the image of Rebecca resting her hand on her belly burned through those lies.

I tried again.

One step.

Another.

My breath grew heavy,

My shirt clung to my back with sweat,

But I kept moving —

Slow, shaky, determined —

Following the wall like it was a lifeline.

By the time I reached the front gate,

My whole body was trembling uncontrollably.

But I made it.

For the first time since the attack…

I stood at the gate.

Not inside.

Not in the middle of the yard.

At the gate.

The exact place she wasn’t allowed to come to.

I leaned on the metal bars,

My arms shaking,

Tears rose without permission.

At that moment,

I realized something powerful:

If she couldn’t come to me,

I would learn to go to her.

Maybe not today.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But soon.

Because a father must rise —

Not only for himself,

But for the child waiting to know him.

That night, when I went back inside, exhausted and nearly collapsing,

My mother saw the sweat on my forehead, the redness in my eyes.

She thought I had overworked myself.

She didn’t know I was preparing for something bigger.

Something unstoppable.

She didn’t know I had made up my mind:

I was going to see Rebecca.

With my own legs.

With my own fight.

No matter how long it took.

No matter how many times my body betrayed me.

No matter who tried to stand in the way.

Because love — real love —

Don’t wait at the door.

It walks through whatever pain it must.

My mother sat outside with her friend, busy twisting the story of my stabbing as if Rebecca had driven the knife herself.

“She was careless… she brought trouble… I warned him!” She spoke with confidence, as if she had been there, as if she knew anything about that night.

Each lie stabbed deeper than the blade that pierced me.

I stood by the doorway, leaning against the frame, my fingers shaking from the effort of holding myself up.

My chest tightened with frustration. My throat burned like fire. My heart pounded with every false word that left her mouth.

Her friend kept nodding sympathetically. They both spoke as if Rebecca was poison.

As if she wasn’t the woman carrying my child. As if she wasn’t the one who came to check on me when everyone else vanished. As if she hadn’t cried at the gate because she wasn’t allowed near me.

My knees felt weak. My palms were sweaty. But something inside me snapped.

The truth needed a voice. And that voice had to be mine.

I tried to speak— but the sound wouldn’t come.

My throat trembled. My lips shook. My entire body felt like it was rejecting the attempt.

My mother kept talking. Another lie. Another twist.

Then—

Something inside me rose.

A storm broke through my chest, forcing its way into my voice.

I pushed myself away from the wall, took one shaky step forward, and with tears streaming down my cheeks—

I forced out my first words since the hospital.

“S… stop… lying…”

My voice cracked like broken glass. Weak. Shaking. Barely audible.

But it was enough to silence everything.

The whole yard froze. The world paused.

My mother turned slowly, her eyes wide in disbelief. Her friend’s mouth hung open, shocked. No one expected sound to come out of me.

Tears ran faster down my face. Pain shot through my throat as if needles were inside it— but I didn’t care.

I had more to say.

I held my chest, fighting for breath, and forced out the next trembling words:

“She… didn’t… do… anything.”

My voice broke completely on the last word. My knees buckled, and I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the ground, exhausted, shaking, crying silently.

But I had said it. I had spoken.

For Rebecca. For my unborn daughter. For myself.

Everything went quiet.

My mother looked embarrassed. Ashamed. Caught.

Her friend shifted uncomfortably, suddenly unsure of the story she had just been fed.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then my mother whispered, softly, nervously:

“Baby… don’t strain yourself.”

But it was too late.

The truth had already cut through the lies.

And for the first time since the stabbing… my voice had come back — not to call for help, not to ask for anything, but to defend the woman they blamed.

Rebecca heard everything.

Not from my mother, of course. News like that travels through the township faster than a taxi on an empty road.

A neighbour’s child ran to her house, breathless, saying, “He spoke. He defended you. He cried for you.”

She froze. Right there on the spot. Her hands shook. Her eyes filled instantly.

She hadn’t heard my voice in months. She didn’t even know if I would ever speak again. She wasn’t allowed near me. She was treated like a curse. Like the reason for my downfall.

But now— hearing that I fought for her with the only strength I had left… that I broke my silence to clear her name…

She broke.

Rebecca covered her face and sobbed, her knees hitting the ground as her friend Naledi held her. She cried over the accusations. For the distance. For the loneliness. For the nights she prayed for me. For the child growing up inside her, who would need a father?

For the love she wasn’t allowed to show.

She cried so hard her chest tightened, and all she kept whispering between breaths was:

“He still loves me… he still loves me…”

A month passed before she gathered the courage to return.

She stood at the gate, wearing a long hoodie, the kind that hid her baby bump but not her trembling hands.

She took a deep breath and whispered my name through the bars:

“Tebelo…”

I was inside, alone, sitting on the couch— my walking still unstable, my words still broken, my muscles still stiff.

But when I heard her voice— that familiar softness, that warmth I thought I had lost forever— my heart jolted inside my chest.

I tried to stand. My legs wobbled. I leaned on the wall and moved toward the door, my breath shaky, my throat burning with effort.

She called my name again, louder:

“Tebelo… it’s me.”

I opened my mouth, trying to respond, wanting so desperately to show her I heard her— that I felt her.

My voice cracked. A weak sound escaped, barely a whisper:

“Re… be…”

My tongue failed me. My throat tightened. But I pushed again, louder, forcing the words through the pain:

“Re… bec… ca…”

My voice trembled, but it was enough.

She froze at the gate, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes filling instantly with tears.

She knew I was calling her.

She knew I had heard her.

She knew I wanted her near.

I stepped outside, using the wall to guide myself. The sun hit my face. My feet dragged slightly as I approached her.

She ran.

Not away. Toward me— as if the gate wasn’t even there.

She pressed herself against the bars, crying, stretching her hands through to touch me.

“You spoke… you spoke to me…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

I reached out my stiff right hand, the one that barely moved, the one therapists said might never function properly again.

I touched her fingers, shaking with effort, and whispered the only word I had strength for:

“Sorry…”

Rebecca cried harder— not from pain, not from fear, but from the simple truth:

I still remembered her. I still wanted her. I still fought for her.

Two broken souls, reuniting at a rusted gate, with love stronger than the wounds that tried to destroy us.