Chapter 30: The Visit
It was a quiet afternoon when Mary's father appeared at the compound gate.
She had not seen him in years. His face had changed—more lines, more silence in his eyes. He was wearing his soldier's uniform, worn from travel. The neighbors greeted him with surprise, and her aunt, caught off guard, forced a smile.
"Mary!" she called out sharply.
Mary came out, her heart pounding. She was barefoot, wearing a faded wrapper tied at her chest—stained from morning chores. Her head was bowed in both respect and shame.
Her father looked at her, taking in her thin arms, sun-darkened skin, and tired eyes. He said nothing for a long moment, but Mary saw the discomfort shift across his face.
"She's growing well," her aunt said quickly. "We've been taking good care of her. She helps in the house, does well in school…"
Mary wanted to speak. She wanted to tell him that everything was not fine—that she wasn't treated like family, that she was used, beaten, neglected. But her lips would not move. Her tongue felt like stone.
Her father turned to her. "How are you?"
"I'm… fine," she whispered.
He looked at her again, as if trying to read the truth behind her silence. His eyes rested on her bare feet, the thin wrapper, her calloused hands. Then he sighed.
"I brought something for you," he said, handing her a small envelope and a packet of biscuits. "For your schooling."
Mary took it gently. "Thank you, sir."
He looked at her once more—longer this time, almost apologetic—then turned to go. He said little else. Perhaps he felt he had done all he could. Perhaps he didn't know how to help. Or perhaps… he chose not to see the full truth.
As Mary watched him walk away, the ache in her chest grew heavier.
She clutched the envelope tightly, not for the money, but for the feeling that someone had remembered her. Yet, deep inside, she whispered what she couldn't say aloud:
"Papa, I'm not fine. But I will be."
And with that, she turned back inside—not broken, but still holding on.