Chapter 32: The Holiday That Changed Her
Mary's journey to her father's house was quiet. She sat in the back of the old car, her small bag on her lap, watching the familiar road blur past. She had imagined this moment so many times—finally leaving her aunt's house, even if just for a week.
When they arrived, the house was smaller than she remembered, worn down from years of weather and war. But it smelled like home—dust, firewood, and something else she hadn't felt in a long time: calm.
For the first time in years, Mary wasn't woken by a scream or a demand. She wasn't sent to sweep the compound before sunrise. She ate her meals without fear of being shouted at for taking too much. Her father wasn't warm, but he wasn't cruel. He mostly watched her quietly, perhaps unsure how to relate to a daughter who had grown in pain and silence.
But Mary used those days well.
She rested.
She read.
She sat beneath a mango tree behind the house and wrote in her notebook every single day. She wrote about freedom. About fear. About how strange it felt to not be ordered around. About the ache of knowing this peace had a deadline.
Then one day, while sweeping the sitting room, she found an old photo tucked behind a broken clock. It was of her mother, smiling, arms around two of her older siblings.
Mary sat down and cried. Not because she was weak—but because the image reminded her of the love she had lost, and the life she might have had.
Her father entered quietly and stood behind her. He didn't say a word, but he placed his hand on her shoulder.
It stayed there for a long time.
That single touch said what he couldn't put into words.
I'm sorry. I remember. I still see you.
When the week ended and it was time to return, Mary didn't resist. But she carried something new with her:
A deeper understanding of who she came from.
And a fire that burned stronger now.
Because this holiday didn't just give her rest.
It reminded her that she deserved a life filled with love.