Chapter 4: Mary is Born
Mary's arrival was quiet—but her presence was powerful.
She was born just as dawn broke over the hills of Taraba. The sky turned from gray to gold, and a soft wind blew through the windows of their clay-walled home. Her mother, exhausted but smiling, held her close and whispered, "This one is different."
From her earliest days, Mary was unlike her older siblings. She didn't cry for attention. She didn't fuss or complain. Instead, she watched—curious, calm, patient. Her mother often said Mary looked at the world with eyes far older than her age.
By the time she could walk, she was already helping. While other children played, Mary stayed close to her mother, learning how to fold clothes, how to stir the soup pot without burning her fingers, how to carry a baby on her back. She absorbed everything—words, movements, feelings—like a sponge.
She was a middle child, but she never felt lost in the crowd. Instead, she felt responsible for keeping things together.
She had a quiet bond with each of her siblings:
She looked up to Monica's confidence.
She admired Rose's calmness.
She followed Esther's fire with caution.
She loved caring for Rautha and Grace.
She protected Vincent like a little soldier.
And Gladys, the baby, brought out her softest smiles.
To her mother, Mary was a helper.
To her father, Mary was thoughtful.
To her siblings, Mary was always there.
Even before her world began to break, Mary carried herself with an inner stillness—as if something deep within her already understood that life would ask more of her than it should.