Wounded warrior

Family Cracks

Rebecca didn’t force her way into my life.

She didn’t shout back at my family.

She didn’t demand forgiveness or attention.

She started quietly.

She sent fruits.

Soft foods.

Liquid meals.

She knew my throat was still weak,

Knew I was learning to eat one shaky spoon at a time.

She remembered everything,

Even the things I couldn’t say out loud.

My mother would take the parcels and place them on the counter without a word.

Sometimes she pretended not to know who they came from.

Sometimes she sighed, torn between anger and gratitude.

But me?

Every time a bowl of blended food touched my tongue,

Every time I tasted something soft and sweet,

I knew whose love it carried.

Rebecca was speaking to me

Through every container

She wasn’t allowed to deliver herself.

Days passed.

Then one afternoon…

The heat of the sun rested on my skin as I stood in the yard,

Trying to teach my legs to remember me.

I clung to the walls of the house —

One hand tracing the bricks,

My right leg is stiff,

My balance is fragile.

Each step was a battle.

But I walked.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Breath by breath.

The world tilted slightly,

My arms trembled,

But I refused to give up.

I followed the wall from the front door to the corner of the house,

Dragging my feet like a child learning to walk for the first time.

And then I heard footsteps.

Soft.

Familiar.

Hesitant.

I turned my head toward the gate —

Not with my neck, which was still stubborn,

But with my whole body,

Pivoting like a broken machine trying to adjust.

There she was.

Rebecca.

Walking slowly down the street,

Coming back from her clinic appointment,

Her hands cradling her growing belly.

She wasn’t coming to my house.

She was passing by.

Keeping her distance.

Respecting the fire my family had built around me.

But fate doesn’t follow rules.

She looked up…

And our eyes met.

Everything inside me froze.

My right leg locked.

My breath caught.

My fingers twitched against the wall.

For a moment, it felt like the entire street disappeared —

The houses, the people, the noise, the distance —

All of it faded until there was only her

And the unborn child between us.

Her eyes filled with tears instantly.

Not the loud kind.

Not the broken kind.

The quiet tears —

The pain created when it has lived too long in silence.

She lifted her hand slightly,

As if waving would break the invisible barrier between us.

I wanted to move toward her.

Wanted to reach her.

Wanted to touch that stomach carrying my daughter.

But my body betrayed me.

My foot dragged.

My knees weakened.

My shoulder slid off the wall for half a second —

Just enough to scare me.

Rebecca gasped softly.

She took one step forward… very small,

As if afraid of being seen by my family,

Yet unable to stop herself.

Her lips trembled.

“Innocent…” she whispered,

Barely audible,

But I heard it.

I felt it.

Her voice cracked open something inside me —

Something raw, something old, something still alive.

I tried to speak.

Tried to form her name.

My mouth opened…

My throat flexed…

But only air came out —

Thin, broken, painful.

Still, her eyes widened,

As if even that small effort meant the world.

She clutched her stomach gently,

Tears sliding down her cheeks.

Then, sensing footsteps behind me —

My uncle, approaching —

She wiped her face quickly.

She whispered one more thing,

Her voice trembling like a fragile promise:

“Get better… please. Your daughter needs you.”

She turned away and walked down the street,

Her shadow stretching behind her,

Her heart was clearly heavy.

I pressed my forehead against the wall.

And cried soundlessly.

For her.

For the child.

For the love we weren’t allowed to show.

For the future that suddenly mattered more than my pain.

And from that moment,

I didn’t just walk.

I fought.

Every breath.

Every step.

Every minute.

For my unborn daughter.

For Rebecca.

For myself.

After Rebecca walked away that afternoon, I stayed outside longer than I was supposed to — leaning on the wall, breathing heavily, wrestling with the storm inside my chest.

Seeing her had healed something… but it also opened a wound my family refused to acknowledge.

I knew she would come back. Not to the gate, not into the yard, but somewhere close — close enough to see me, close enough to feel connected, yet far enough to avoid the hostility waiting inside my home.

And I was right.

The next morning, I stood again in the same spot, teaching my legs to obey me. The wall was my crutch, my silent witness, my proof that I was not giving up.

Then I heard her voice.

Not speaking — laughing softly with someone passing by.

A small, tired laugh.

I turned my body slowly, and there she was again, walking along the same street, her belly slightly more visible now, her steps careful, her face weary.

But this time, she wasn’t alone.

My uncle Sibusiso spotted her before I did.

He was sweeping the yard, his huge frame blocking half the gate.

When his eyes landed on her, the broom stopped midair.

His expression hardened instantly.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t greet her.

He just watched.

Rebecca noticed him and froze. Her breath hitched — not from guilt, but from fear of causing trouble.

Then her eyes found mine again.

For a brief moment, all the noise, all the tension, all the anger in the air vanished.

It was just us.

Me leaning on the wall, her holding her pregnant belly, two people who had made a child together while the world around them burned.

She lifted her hand slightly, as if to wave again.

But Sibusiso stepped forward.

“No,” he said sharply. “Not here. Not in the condition he’s in.”

His words cut through the air like a blade.

Rebecca flinched.

She lowered her hand slowly, her shoulders collapsing inward.

“Sibusiso… please. I’m not here to fight,” she said softly.

But he shook his head, jaw tight.

“You must go. My nephew is healing. He doesn’t need drama. He doesn’t need stress. And he definitely doesn’t need you coming around.”

I felt my heart sink.

My leg stiffened. My hand curled painfully. My breath shortened.

I wanted to shout STOP! I wanted to say Let her stay! I wanted to scream She’s carrying my child!

But my voice was still trapped, buried under the damage inside my brain.

Rebecca swallowed hard, tears forming.

“I just wanted to check if he’s okay,” she whispered.

Sibusiso’s voice rose.

“He’s fine. And he doesn’t need you here. Just go before you make things worse.”

She stared at him for a moment — broken, hurt, but still dignified.

Then she turned to me.

And despite the humiliation, despite the rejection, despite the pain bleeding through her expression…

She smiled.

A small, trembling, heartbreaking smile.

“Innocent… get better,” she whispered. “For our daughter.”

She placed her hand gently on her stomach, letting me know that she was carrying both our burdens alone.

Then she walked away.

Slow. Silent. Strong.

Sibusiso returned to sweeping, shaking his head as if he’d saved me from something dangerous.

But he didn’t look at my face.

If he had, he would’ve seen the truth:

I wasn’t breaking because of the attack.

I was breaking because the woman carrying my child was being pushed farther away from me with every passing day.

And all I could do was stand there, leaning on a wall that held more weight than I ever expected to give it.