At Eleanor Henderson Care & Enrichment Centre, the place buzzed with life; children laughing, teachers calling out, chairs scraping, and the gentle ring of the lunchtime bell. But Lina's mind wasn't in the room. As she helped a child with reading blocks and cleaned up messy paint jars, her thoughts were on something else entirely; her topic for the podcast.
The Woman Speaks.
Even the title gave her chills.
Rochelle had been clear: "Bring your story. Bring your truth. Bring your fire. This isn't a place for pretending, it's for women who speak without fear."
Lina had so much to share.
She mentally noted key points for her episode:
Why being silent is heavy, not graceful.
How shame makes us hide and why we must stop.
What motherhood really means: surrogacy, judgment, and healing.
Rebuilding when your dreams fall apart.
By Friday, she had memorized half her speech. But she hadn't said it out loud.
Until Saturday.
It was warm at the park, full of parents and kids. Lina and Davis sat under a tree after playing catch. A breeze ruffled his shirt as he sipped his juice.
"Mom," Davis said, "you've been smiling more. Is it because of that new lady, Miss Rochelle?"
Lina laughed and wiped sweat from his forehead. "You've been watching me, haven't you?"
"Always," he replied seriously. "Watching helps me understand things."
She blinked. "Wow. That's a good skill, Davis. And yes, you're right. I'm working with her. She's giving me a big chance."
"What kind?"
"A podcast," she said gently. "It's like talking into a mic, and people listen online. I'll be sharing stories, real stories."
"Your story too?"
Lina nodded.
Davis looked thoughtful. "Will it help people understand you?"
"I hope so."
After a pause, he said quietly, "Then it's important. You should do it."
Her throat tightened.
He continued, "Sometimes I think about Nigeria... and how you worked so hard. You were quiet a lot then, like something was heavy. But here... you seem lighter."
Lina bit her lip. "You noticed that?"
He nodded. "You don't always have to be strong, Mommy. Just be honest. That's what you tell me."
She wiped a tear away and smiled. "When did you get so wise?"
He grinned. "Since I turned eleven. I'm basically a man now."
She pulled him into a side hug. "You are. My brave, brilliant boy."
"And you," he said, "are a superhero. Just make sure your podcast cape matches your shoes."
They laughed together, and Lina felt something shift inside her; a quiet win. Her son was growing not just taller, but deeper. And maybe, just maybe, her pain wasn't wasted.
***
One Rainy Evening, the bell above the bookstore café door jingled as Lina stepped in, soaked and shivering. Her umbrella dripped on the mat. The warm smell of old books, tea, and cinnamon pastries wrapped around her like a blanket.
She browsed through a section called Used & Loved. One book caught her eye; The Burdened Heart. She didn't know why she picked it. Maybe it was the title. Maybe it was the handwritten note inside: Property of someone who cried while reading this.
She bought the book, grabbed some chamomile tea, and sat by the window. Outside, the city blurred in the rain. Inside, it was calm.
She was only a few pages in when the door opened again.
A tall man walked in, soaked like her. His hair curled at the edges, and he looked around before walking over.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked, his voice low and a little rough.
Lina smiled faintly. "Go ahead. It's not taken."
"Thanks. Only seat near a plug," he added, placing his wet laptop bag down.
She nodded politely and went back to her book. The silence between them was easy. The soft jazz music, the sound of cups clinking, it all felt peaceful.
After a few minutes, he spoke again.
"That book… it saved me," he said.
Lina looked up. "Sorry?"
He pointed at her book. The Burdened Heart.
"I read it every night for three months," he said. "My wife died last year. Pancreatic cancer. That book helped me survive some really hard nights."
Lina studied him more closely now, not just his face, but his eyes. They carried pain.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "That must've been so hard."
He nodded slowly. "It was. Still is. But places like this help."
She looked down at the book again. It suddenly felt heavier in her hands. "I didn't even know why I picked it."
"Maybe it picked you," he said with a soft smile. "Books are weird that way. They come when we need them."
She smiled. "I'm Lina."
"Miles," he replied.
They shook hands, just briefly, but the warmth lingered.
Miles looked down at his laptop, then back at her. "Do you come here often?"
"Sometimes. When my thoughts feel too loud."
He nodded, understanding. "Same."
They sat in quiet comfort. Once in a while, he looked at the rain and smiled, as if lost in memory.
When she got up to leave, she closed the book gently and looked at him. "Thanks for sharing. I needed something real today."
He nodded. "Thanks for letting me sit. The rain feels less cold now."
Lina bought the book and tucked it under her arm like a treasure. Outside, the rain had softened to a light drizzle. The city lights blinked on the wet streets like little stars.
That night at home, she couldn't stop thinking about the book or about the kind stranger in the café.
She didn't know much about his story.
But something told her:
She'd see Miles again.
And next time, maybe they'd finish the conversation.