Choice Assorted

Chapter Five: The name you gave me

The classroom was bright with coloured charts, exam timetables, and inspirational quotes in curly fonts. Children’s art hung from string lines. The buzz of polite chatter filled the space, broken only by the teacher’s warm greetings.

Dodo stood near the door, watching it all unfold.

Most of the white parents had come as couples — moms in sneakers and dad jeans, dads with salt-and-pepper stubble and Patagonia fleeces. Some of the black parents came as couples too, dressed a little more formally, often holding hands.

Dodo clutched her handbag like a shield. She wasn't alone in being alone — she spotted two, maybe three other women like her, also standing quietly by themselves. The singles drifted to one side of the room, almost instinctively, while the couples gravitated to the other, forming warm little islands of partnership.

There was no sign, no line drawn on the floor — just the unspoken choreography of belonging and being othered.

Dodo smiled tightly at one of the other single mothers — a woman in a charcoal blouse and court shoes who was nervously picking at a paper cup of juice. They exchanged that brief, knowing look: We are here. We are doing this alone. And we will not fall apart in public.

Then the teacher clapped once, cheerfully, and said, “Let’s mix up a little — moms and dads, come closer! You’re all on the same team!”

The line dissolved slowly, hesitantly. Dodo stepped forward, but her feet felt like anchors. A couple brushed past her without a glance. Another man accidentally bumped her shoulder and muttered a distracted “Sorry,” already turning to put his arm around his wife.

She stood there, momentarily invisible. Portia waved at her from across the room with a hopeful smile, urging her mom to come closer. Dodo smiled and made her way toward the back row.

As the teacher launched into the presentation, Dodo took a seat beside another solo mother. They didn’t speak, but both sat a little straighter, shoulders squared, the way women do when they know they’re being measured—by eyes, by assumptions, by lives they never asked to be compared to.

When Portia stood up to do her presentation — about identity, roots, and heritage — her voice rang clear.

“I come from a strong line of women,” she said. “My mother raised me. She gave me everything I needed and never let me feel like less.”

Dodo felt her heart twist. Pride and pain tangled in her chest like bramble.

Then Portia added, “But sometimes… I still wonder about the parts of me I don’t know yet. I hope I get to learn all of who I am. One day.”

The room applauded.

Dodo swallowed hard.

The hum of the engine was the only sound in the car. Dodo drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the radio, fingers twitching like they wanted to change the station but couldn’t find the energy.

Portia sat next to her, unusually quiet. She didn’t check her phone, didn’t scroll, didn’t hum. She just stared out the window as Durban’s late afternoon light began to fade into gold.

“I’m proud of you,” Dodo finally said.

“Thanks,” Portia replied, her voice small.

Dodo glanced at her. “You were brilliant up there. Everyone could see that.”

Portia nodded, then turned in her seat. “Ma… do you think it’s weird that I want to meet my dad?”

The question landed with the force of a stone dropped in still water. Dodo’s breath hitched.

“No,” she said carefully. “It’s not weird. It’s… human.”

“I keep thinking about what I said today in class,” Portia continued. “About knowing all of who I am. I meant it. But I don’t actually know him. I don’t even know his surname.”

“You have my surname,” Dodo said softly.

“I know,” Portia said. “But… would it be okay if I had both? Or his? Just… to try it out?”

Dodo didn’t answer right away. Her throat tightened, her grip on the wheel firmer now.

“He never came,” she said finally. “When I was pregnant. When you were born. He didn’t show up, Portia. Not once.”

“I know,” Portia whispered. “But maybe I just need to see him once. So that I can stop guessing.”

They drove past a church, its billboard flashing JESUS KNOWS YOUR HEART in big blue letters. Dodo blinked hard.

“Can I meet him, Ma? Or his family? You don’t even have to come if you don’t want to. I can ask Auntie Thembi—”

“No,” Dodo cut in. “If you’re going, I’m coming.”

Portia smiled a little, relieved.

“I’m not saying I’m happy about it,” Dodo added. “But I won’t let you face that side of your story alone.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes, neither moving.

“You’re not angry?” Portia asked.

“I’m not sure what I am,” Dodo said truthfully. “But I’ll figure it out.”

They climbed out of the car and walked inside.

Later that night Dodo writes in her journal.

Dear Future Me,

Today my daughter asked for the one thing I’ve spent years trying to forget — his name.

She wants to wear it. Try it on like a coat I folded and burned a decade ago.

And I didn’t scream. I didn’t shut her down. I let her ask.

Is that growth?

I hated how those school moms looked at me today — the ones with the husbands and smooth lives. I hated the invisible wall we all pretended not to notice.

But Portia stood in front of that room and said I gave her everything. Maybe I did.

Maybe I still have more to give — even if it means unsealing old wounds and letting her see the scars.

I’m scared. But I want her to know who she is. Not just the parts I curated.

I want her to carry her truth. Even if it’s heavier than mine.

Love,

Dodo