Here is Chapter 13: The Mirror and the Mountain, a chapter where Bonitah is forced to confront her past once more—through an unexpected encounter that threatens to shake the foundation she's carefully rebuilt.
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Chapter 13: The Mirror and the Mountain
The day started like any other.
Bonitah was at her usual corner near the church, arranging her trays of scones with practiced hands. Benaiah played nearby, stacking old plastic cups into towers and knocking them over with a triumphant cheer.
The sun was gentle, the air calm. Business was steady.
And then—he appeared.
She saw him before he saw her.
Across the road. A man standing at a bus stop, his head tilted slightly as he scanned the area. Dark jacket. Familiar frame. Familiar posture. And then he turned his head—and her breath vanished.
Love.
He hadn't changed much. Maybe a little older. A little wearier. But it was him.
For a moment, she couldn't move. The years collapsed. She was nineteen again. Afraid. Alone. Carrying shame and a child he'd never met.
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He looked across the road and froze.
Their eyes met.
He took a slow step forward.
She felt her heart pound.
Not with longing.
Not even anger.
But with clarity.
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He approached, cautious.
"Bonitah?" he asked, as though unsure if ghosts could speak.
She straightened. "Yes."
He looked down at Benaiah, now sitting in the dirt, drawing lines with a stick.
"That's… is he…?"
"Yes," she said again, more firmly this time. "He's your son."
Silence.
Love nodded slowly, his mouth opening to speak, but no words came.
After a moment, he looked up again. "I didn't know where to find you. I was young. Scared. I made mistakes."
She felt the old hurt stir, but it didn't consume her like it once had.
"I wasn't hard to find," she said simply. "You chose not to look."
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He looked away, ashamed.
"I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I just… I thought maybe I could see him. Talk to him."
Bonitah crossed her arms. "And then what? Walk away again?"
He hesitated. "No. I want to be… part of his life. If you'll let me."
She looked at Benaiah. His curls. His small hands. His fearless joy.
He didn't know the history. He didn't know the pain.
All he knew was love—the kind she had bled to give him.
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She turned back to Love.
"You don't get to just appear and rewrite your absence with intentions," she said. "He's not a project. He's a person. He's not broken because you weren't there—but I was. I still am."
Her voice shook—but not from fear.
From truth.
Love nodded again, eyes glistening. "I understand. I just… wanted to say sorry."
Bonitah blinked back tears.
"Thank you," she said. "But forgiveness doesn't always mean return."
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He left quietly.
Didn't beg. Didn't shout.
Just walked away into the city's blur.
And in that moment, she felt something lift. Not sadness—but release.
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That night, she told Benaiah, in the simplest terms a child could understand:
"Someone came to visit today. Someone from the beginning of your story. But you don't need to worry, my boy. You are already loved enough."
He looked at her with wide eyes and nodded, content to let the world stay simple for now.
And Bonitah … she sat by the mirror and looked at herself.
Not as the abandoned girl.
Not even just as a mother.
But as a woman who had climbed a mountain—and was still rising.
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