Unwelcome Eyes
410 Words
My stepmother stood between me and my father—always had.
I was never her favorite stepson. Not once did I feel chosen, or even tolerated. And over the years, I learned that silence could be louder than words.
Whenever I visited, she made sure my father and I never had space to truly talk. There was always something—an errand, a question, a sudden appearance. Even moments meant for bonding never stayed untouched.
I remember the days we washed the car together outside in the yard. My father and I would laugh, share small stories, speak in half-finished sentences only we understood. But just as the laughter grew, she would appear—standing close, listening without pretending not to.
She never needed to hear the words.
She just needed to interrupt the moment.
After everything I had been through, I knew most people would be happy to see me again. I had survived. I had fought my way back. I carried scars that spoke for themselves.
Everyone would be happy.
Everyone—except her.
And her questions.
They were never kind. Never curious. They felt like inspections, like reminders that I didn’t quite belong.
One afternoon, as the weight of all this settled on me, I told Mr Mabaso about my plans to visit my father.
“That’s a good thought, Matibza… Tibza,” he said warmly, using the name he always saved for moments like this—moments of courage.
Then he added casually, “So… when are we going?”
I looked at him, surprised.
“You mean you’re willing to escort me to my dad’s place?” I asked.
He chuckled softly, still focused on the board. “I thought you’d never ask,” he replied, deciding which move to make as it was his turn to roll the dice.
Gratitude swelled in my chest.
“Thank you, Taima lam,” I said. “Going with you will mean a lot to me.”
He nodded, calm and certain. “Just tell me—when are we leaving?”
“How’s next Saturday for you, Taima?” I asked.
“Saturday it is,” he said, narrowing his eyes playfully at the board, carefully watching the move I was about to make.
The dice rolled.
And for the first time in a long while, so did hope.
Not loudly.
Not boldly.
Just enough to remind me—I wouldn’t be walking into my past alone.
- Writer
